Sympathetic Survival

So there's this television program called, "Survivorman".

In the best interests of my waistline and diet, this is a program that I. must. quit. watching.

The programs always go something like this: Survivorman is dropped off in a remote location, like at the top of one of the Canadian Rocky Mountains, for example. He will be expected to survive for six or seven days with only the things that he carries on his person, usually things that wouldn't be considered useful for survival; his video camera, a light jacket, a harmonica, maybe one or two candy bars, something stupid like a car radiator, and nothing else.

The guy always survives, but also always ends up nearly starving to death, and nourishes himself with gross things like bugs and worms and stuff plucked from various bushes around him. Occasionally he will catch a fish or a bird, and eat it in the most digusting manner possible. As in raw.

When I watch this show, and we do watch it with some regularity, since it is intriguing to see how Survivorman masters the great outdoors, I always feel a mounting tension gripping me. What nasty stuff will he ingest this time? I feel my stomach rumble with sympathetic hunger, even if we have just finished dinner.

When he gets to the part where he's picking off bug legs before chomping down the bodies of the creepy crawlies, I find myself inching toward the kitchen.

As he laments the lack of food in his surroundings and describes vividly the resulting exhaustion and hunger pangs, my backside hangs out of the fridge or pantry as I shuffle stuff around, looking for a snack.

Last night, as the final credits were rolling, I was chowing down on a freshly-baked apple turnover. Mid show I had found an ancient box of the freezer pastries during my seek and shuffle phase and had them popped into the oven before Survivorman plucked his first bug leg.

Hang in there, Survivorman. I'll eat for you. Got it covered, big guy.