Sunday, July 19, 2009

The following message is brought to you by the makers of Writer's Block.

So here I am, a trashy reality TV show addict, staying in for the night to sit on my couch, eat Yodels and judge those who have signed their souls over to cable television networks.

Because that's what the Sabbath day is all about, right?

Now, I don't usually discriminate when it comes to trashy television; I love it all, or maybe I'm purely fascinated by it all. I enjoy watching the insane and irrational compete for love, money and who can disgrace their grandmothers the fastest. It's my way of clearing my head, a way of feeling better about myself when I've had an off day. Plus, it's not like I try to emulate any of the behavior. My dad has always said that if I didn't have good grades, I'd be forced to watch PBS on a continuous loop.

As a reality TV aficionado, I tend to watch most shows at least once, but some are just too ridiculous to sit through. 

Case in point: VH1's Daisy of Love. 

While I find Bret Michaels wickedly entertaining, anyone who competes to be his girlfriend, and then comes in second place, should not be allowed to have her own dating show. How can America trust the judgement of a silicone-injected Tattoo Barbie who wanted to be Mrs. I'm-balding-but-you-can't-tell-because-I-have-hair-extensions-and-a-bandana-glued-to-my-scalp? The answer is that we can't.

As she simultaneously dates Cage, Chi Chi, Professor, 6 Gauge, Brooklyn, Fox, 12 Pack, Sinister, 84, 85, 86, Big Rig, London, Torch, Tool Box, Weasel, Cable Guy, Flex and the most appropriately named Dropout, (and yes, she renames them for memory purposes) she searches for someone with whom she can share her life and love of tattoos and eyeliner. One by one, these sweet gentleman are sent home and the remaining celebrate avoiding elimination by raising their flasks in appreciation. Classy, classy, classy.

I tell myself I can get through the hour of programming, but without fail, I can only physically make it halfway. There's just something about this one that I can't stomach. It could be the unnecessary violence, swearing and alcoholism or maybe I've just logged too many hours of mind-rotting television and my brain has reached its limit.

Criticisms aside, when a skunk happened to wander into the mansion (while the suitors were all conveniently drunk and clothed only in their leopard-print undies) and sprayed 12 Pack in the face, I smiled, appreciating the impromptu family reunion, or average hunting day for these guys, depending on how you look at it. Either one works for me.

Long story short, I'm holding out hope for Megan Wants a Millionaire, which premiers in two weeks. Until then, I'll have to ponder one of life's greatest questions:

"Will you stay in this house and be my rockstar?"

I'm sorry, Daisy, but no, I definitely will not. To quote the infinite source of wisdom that is Fox, "I'm out like sauerkraut."

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