Bachelor Survival, Day 1:
It’s 5 o’clock at night, and I just dropped my wife off at the airport. She’s going to a work conference in Dallas for the next four nights, which means I’m alone in the wild suburbs of Layton for five days. No one to help me with survival. Nobody to hear me if I trip getting out of the shower. No one to rinse off the dirty dishes before they get put in the dishwasher.
It’s going to be thorny. So I’m going to film the whole thing for my show this week and try to show you at home how to survive . . . (dramatic pause for effect) . . . as a sudden bachelor. Welcome to another episode of Mr. Survival!
(Cue theme music: tribal drums and natives yelling, intercut with action scenes, i.e., that time I forgot to put the lid on the blender or when that giant ball of hair in the sink tried to kill me.)
Well, it’s starting to get dark, so my first objective is to find shelter. As you can see, I’ve constructed a rudimentary bed, using this couch and some blankets, which should do for tonight. I can’t remember how to use the DVR, so it looks like a long night of SportsCenter reruns. Good night, folks! I’ll see you in the morning.
Whoo. That was rough. After the third 20-minute segment on the Miami Heat (commercials included), I finally fell asleep. But I woke up at least once when I was really, really moderately thirsty. So, yeah. Long night.
One of the natives in this area (my mom) just called me and invited me over for dinner tonight. Usually on this show, I don’t accept help because I’m truly trying to synthesize a disaster-bachelor-survival scenario, but she said that she’s making taco casserole. Which is really good. And my fridge is mainly filled with diet root beer and rotting orange slices. And ketchup. So I’m going to honor the native’s request. It’s important to keep up good relations with the indigenous peoples.
I unplugged the TV this morning after I woke up to several bills on the credit card from late-night advertisers. I bought two different “Best Love Songs of the ’70s” collections without even realizing it.
My shelter has been OK, but last night, I fought a long battle with a spider I think I might have seen by my feet. I never actually found it, but I suppose it’s just off organizing a spider militia with all its evil, hairy brethren. The spiders will be coming for me tonight, I suspect, to crawl all over my toes and lay eggs in my brain. I’d better find a new place to sleep.
(Cue traveling montage: shots of me with all my bedding attached to my back by shoelaces, carrying only a bag of Goldfish™ crackers and a raspberry Zinger™.)
I found a nice spot under the kitchen table. It’s got one natural border (the wall), and I’ve built a small fire using a match and several old textbooks. Also, since I ate all the Goldfish™ and that Zinger™ for energy, I’ve got no food, but there are some nice wild edibles underneath this table (more Goldfish™ and something that might have been an onion ring) that should help me get through the next two days. Good night!
Boy, I’m just about done in. The floor is so cold, and that fire opened a hole in the wall, which only exposes me to the increasingly violent spider revolution. They’ve started wearing my socks as togas and are scrawling crude notes with ketchup around the house. “Give us flies, or we’ll walk all over your toes!” That kind of thing.
The thirst is really starting to take over. Oh, sure, I’ve had maybe 16 cans of diet root beer in the last 12 hours, but it’s an off-off-brand (Hoot Bleer™), and I think there may be trace amounts of bathroom cleaner in the recipe. Which would also explain the hallucination I’m currently having of Richard Simmons filming this.
No, Richard! Don’t zoom in too close! Drama lives in the wide shots! Amateur.
My wife is flying back in tonight. Richard said he’s good to pick her up, but I don’t want to be left alone with the spiders. They’ve made religious education compulsory in their new government (it’s an Episcopalian theocracy), and I haven’t memorized the Old Testament for that pop quiz yet. So I’m going to make my way out to the car now. Wish me luck.
If anyone finds this footage, please, remember me. And make sure that Richard takes care of the dishes in the sink. He never rinses them off before he puts them in the dishwasher. And he always puts the forks in upside-down.
(Cue ending credits: tribal music, natives yelling, Richard Simmons dancing while dressed like a giant Goldfish™ cracker.)