I don’t know what the rest of you did this summer. Probably sat around, allowing yourself, albeit grudgingly, to be fanned by handsome naked men, sipping from (virgin, of course) pina coladas, and bossing about your foot servants ("Charles! Come quickly! The sun has shifted position, and I am in danger of tanning unevenly!") But not me. I was living by my wits, scavenging for food, defending myself against hordes of angry natives. I was a survivor.

Sure, I was once like you. I worked nights in an insurance company for most of the summer, where I dealt with Captain Stupid, a short, small-footed, clear-mustached little geek who, with minimal knowledge of my job or insurance in general, managed to boss me around famously for eight weeks. For example: I was forced to sit about 100 feet from everyone else on the night shift, without the benefit of a telephone, because, and I quote, I tended to "rile everyone up with my naughtiness" too much.

Now, as far as I know, I have neither riled anyone nor been naughty in my entire life, unless you count those hazy days in Antigua, when I was love slave to Prince Jorge, the handsome and cunning pirate prince of the Caribbean Sea.

But enough of that digression (although he used to do the cutest thing with his eye patch!)

The point was, that I was once a pencil-pushing monkey. But now I am a strong, iron-willed master of the universe. "How did you achieve this?" you ask. "Please, tell me! My will is the consistency and color of tapioca, I want to be strong! I want to be like you!"

Well, perhaps you should have your head examined. But again, that’s beside the point.

The point is, while that other group of survivors were off on the island of Pulau Tiga, battling for a cool one mil, three of my compatriots and I were battling for much more, right here on campus: namely, our self-respect, our dignity, and our unswerving devotion to remaining unperverted by a group of fifteen year old kids.

For two weeks this summer, Matt Haberman, Denise Kettering, Jared Crooks and I were RAs at a gifted and talented camp sponsored by AU. This sounded like a very easy job when it was first pitched to us in May: wake the kids up, wait around until they come back from class, take them to dinner, put them to bed. They were supposed to be gifted. And gifted kids go to bed at eight to play with their pocket calculators. Right?

Well, apparently, the definition has changed since I was, myself a gifted kid (not that I played with my pocket calculator.) Now, "gifted and talented" means "must have sex noowwwwwwwwwww."

So, our so-called simple job evolved into Full Time Protectors of Teen Chastity, or, as Jared put it, Human Contraceptives. There were rendezvous in the stairwells to break up, couplings in the student lounge to investigate, and plans of lust to thwart.

There was even a successful attempt at stealing condoms from Wal-Mart—in my presence, I might add—that ended with me returning to the store, ID-ing the box in question for a very bemused looking Wal-Mart official. ("Are you sure it was the super sensitive? Could it have been the ribbed for her pleasure variety?")

This was also the day, might I hasten to note, that I fell on my ass in front of eight hundred thousand cheerleaders. Needless to say, I earned my million bucks right then.

And that’s not even the start of it. We even had two campers, uh, voted off the island for committing an act of indiscretion in the back of the camp director’s van, which left Matt, Denise, Jared and I with no end of hilarious stories to tell, as well as incredibly deep psychological scars.

So, guys, this one’s for you. You can have your tribal council if you want, but you’ll find no stronger survivors than those who have stayed up late at night, guarding the door of a gifted and talented hornball, out for love.