21 February 2008
Every cowboy sings a sad, sad song...
So I have a guilty pleasure. [speaking of pleasures... the naughty diary is http://desireis.diaryland.com - just drop me an email if you want the password)] Well, okay... I have lots of pleasures and I rarely feel guilty about any of 'em. But sometimes you do something so wrong that you can feel both your IQ and self-respect dropping like a stone to the bottom of a dirty little river.
The guilty pleasure in question is watching (or more likely as of late reading the recaps on televisionwithoutpity.com) Brett Michaels: Rock of Love. It has NO redeeming qualities whatsoever. Brett is a vain, shallow has-been who will never be able to love anyone with as much depth and passion as he loves himself. And the women on the show are so desperate and needy you feel embarrassed for them. They also spend about 18 of every 24 hours intoxicated. Though in their defense I'd need some serious Tequila goggles to find the guy attractive too. There are chick fights, emotional breakdowns, alcohol-related blackouts and drunken declarations of love to former 80's hairband singers who hide their now clearly either bald-or-balding head beneath a ubiquitous and seemingly endless supply of bandanas.
This show is a trainwreck. They manage to find 20 desperate women who all want to be Brett's one true love - in spite of all evidence to the contrary that BRETT is Brett's one true love. I lose sleep at night worrying some of them aren't just after money and a sad, seedy 15 minutes of fame.
I truly can't overstate how fuckawful bad this show is - the women compete in peep show and stripper pole contests and tight t-shirt in the mud football matches. All for the glory (!!??) of possibly becoming Mrs. Brett. The "winners" of these little challenges get to go on group or solo dates with their follicle-challenged object of desire. At the end of every episode one girl is eliminated. The others are asked by Brett if they'll stay and (wait for it...) rock his world. I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.
I have nothing against sex, drinking and rock and roll. Most of my Saturday nights involve vodka, bondage and random acts of deviancy. But fighting with fellow skanks on national TV for sloppy seconds from a guy who probably has a fourth generation of crabs residing in his crotch should make you seriously reexamine your life decisions. It's sad. It's pitiful. It's proof that reality television will keep on lowering the bar as long as we keep tossing it a shovel. God how I love it!
Anyway. Watch the show. I can't remember when it's on but set your DVR. You won't regret it. And it'll make you feel much better about whatever humiliating past misdeed still haunts you. Because I guarantee no matter what it is, it's not anwhere near as bad as telling Brett Michaels you're in love with him and then bazooka barfing into the toilet.
Have a great day and thanks for reading.
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naughty diary - 17 December 2009
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