Idiot Box Savant: 'Survivor' vs. 'The Apprentice'!

By Andrew Kiraly

Apparently, some power-suited muckietron on the upper floors of the Lays mothership had a heart murmur or something, because lately the snack food giant is on some freaky health kick. Wha?! Now they got Lays Natural, a new line of healthy junk food that will rotorize your arteries with the scrubbing action of microscopic hippie chick leg cilia or some shit. After the ironies of it all were done making me dry-heave, I picked up a trial box from the ultra-clearance rack at my neighborhood hatebox hellmart. I got two varieties of minibags (you know, the ones that look like they hold a good, solid nine or so snacks but they really hold only five, plus some flavored air), Lays Natural Potato Chips with Sea Salt and, believe it or not, Cheetos Natural White Cheddar Puffs. The Cheetos are weird; the bag's done up in a New Yankee Workshop woodgrain motif, but with that crazy orange cartoon tiger mascot in the middle, vamping for all the world as if he's blundered into a tasteful benefit party for public radio and promptly let fly some ripping, celebratory flatus. Verdict: The Lays potato chips are average eats--not really much different from the original death-flavored variety--but the Cheetos do stand out. Plus, they're organic, so you'll be a healthy fat ass. Minus: Unless you can find them on clearance, they're probably, like, $400 a bag.

Anyway. Two of TV's biggest reality shows recently kicked off another season. One's hot, one's ass-clot. "The Apprentice," (NBC, Thursdays 9 p.m.) gets two salty thumbs up so far. If you haven't seen "The Apprentice," it's the show where Donald Trump pits two teams of telegenic Type A capitalist warlocks against each other in a battle for control of the NYSE hive mind. Watching them jockey for dominance in the biz race is only half the fun; the other half is tearing your hair out realizing that the world is, in fact, run by people like this, whose idea of success involves brutalizing reality by embodying colon-puckering cliches. How the Savant shivers in the fierce Arctic winds of stale platitude as contestants bray shit like: "See, I'm the kind of outside-the-box team player who can really step up to the plate and deliver the goods, a natural leader who thrives on organized chaos." Double--nay, triple--argh!

Still, this season promises to be better than the last, even without the iceberg-toothed carnosaurus known as Omarosa. This time around, the contestants include a fruity smooth-talker given to wearing bowties and carrying a cane, a 20-year-old wunderkind who, unfortunately, looks like a younger H. Ross Perot as interpreted by a one-eyed police sketch artist, and a handful of cropped-haired doods who look like they should be wearing milk moustaches while modeling boxer-briefs. As always, the best moments are in the boardroom, where Trump is in his usual thuggish form; but the real change is in his right-hand mamma-jamma, Carol. Last season she kinda held back with an abiding sneer. This time around, she regularly blasts a withering Nordic frost from her nostrils, shriveling the balls of male and female contestants alike. Co-opting Larry Flynt objectification beam at the ready!

But what's up with "Survivor"? That scent...on the air...does the Savant smell a possible shark-jump? Remember how they kicked it off a coupla seasons ago, when they told players they were herding them for a promotional photo shoot, then made them jump off the ship, swim to shore and start the game? Awesomeness! They kicked off this season's "Survivor: Vanuatu--Islands of Fire," (CBS, Thursday 8 p.m.) by menacing the Survivors with spear-wielding, real-life Vanuatu tribesmen, which was the cheesiest thing I've seen since they gave Rupert a million dollars because if he was sad, the terrorists would win. I half-expected one of the tribesmen to turn to the camera, all nose-boned and natty-headed, and go, "What's in your wallet!?" I dunno. Maybe my reality jones has been sated by "The Amazing Race," though my interest in even that show has flagged since the midget Charla was eliminated. Lo, nothing brought more joy to the Savant's fat-marbled soul than watching li'l Charla oompa-loomping across the slick floors of airport concourses, tennies squeaking with miniaturized fervor. Go, Charla, go! Onward, to the island of fire that is the Savant's recurring heartburn!