Pop culture obsessives writing for the pop culture obsessed.
Pop culture obsessives writing for the pop culture obsessed.

Ext: Some kind of abandoned mansion that has been fashioned into a crude kind of auditorium deep within the quarantine zone. The camera pans in on the crowd, a sea of depraved faces, a mass of undulating chaos, surrounding a pit filled with water before a rough stage. They are drunkenly shouting, grunting idiotically, their call a collective gutteral: "Woooooooo!" These are the survivors. They have devoured each other, bloated themselves on a diet of jacuzzi water, booze, and camera time, and they are hungry for a sacrifice.

THE OUTSIDER, one of the ones who came over the mirrored walls into this abandoned, godforsaken reality television universe, is led to the stage. There is a mixture of fear and disgust in his eyes, as if he were a the only sober person at a kegger, hemmed in on all sides by grotesque, drunken, rageful frat boys, with no means of escape. He knows he must try to speak to them, but how can he speak to this terrible swarm? What is left of their humanity?

THE OUTSIDER: What's up, Real Worlders? How you doin' everybody?! Yeah! This is, uh, awesome!

Within seconds the survivors have mobbed him, pulled him from the stage and thrown him into the watery pit below.

After watching the entirety of The Real World Awards Bash online (whatever you do, don't expose yourself to this), I'm almost surprised the whole thing didn't end in a fiery explosion. I thought they would at least cannibalize that blow-up doll.


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