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Tuesday, Nov 10, 2009
Do you want to be a rock star, a soap star, a sitcom writer or a dancer? Or, would you rather be forever free from Wannabe TV?
Jul 10, 2005 | Memoroids flaring
I've been a fan of reality TV since most of you were running around in pajamas with feet. Now, I was no stranger to "The Real World" or "Survivor," but what I remember the most from the old days was the very first broadcast of "Temptation Island." We didn't have TiVos back then, you see, so as the clock ticked closer to 9 p.m., the whole family would gather around the television in anticipation of our favorite show of all. Mama would pop a big bowl of popcorn, and Pa would set his spectacles and his book aside to join us in watching those daring young couples as they tried to keep their love strong in the company of a herd of whoring sea donkeys. I can still remember it like it was yesterday! How Mama would gasp and wring her hands, and all the kids would huddle close on the floor in anticipation. Would ripped abs and fake jugs and the promise of tequila body shots lure these fit young whippersnappers away from true love? None of us knew! All we could do is sigh and hope for the best.
Yes, those were simpler times. But I think about them a lot now that reality TV has evolved into an entirely different beast. You see, soon after that, the producers wised up and discovered that the whoring sea donkeys in question weren't really whoring sea donkeys at all. In fact, they had no interest whatsoever in whoring. What they really wanted was to get their ripped abs and fake jugs on TV at any cost. They were wannabes!
Thus, a whole new branch of reality TV was born -- Wannabe TV, let's call it. These days, whether you want to be a soap star, rock star, style-maker, real estate mogul, fashion designer, chef, Hilton, starlet, model, dancer, rapper, boxer, kept man, Food Network star, comedian or male stripper, you can pursue your dreams while the cameras roll.
Which is unfortunate, since most of these shows are about as exciting as watching Pa wipe lint off his spectacles. Sure, back when Tyra Banks took her first wobbly steps as a budding reality diva, it was fun. You could hear one of the wannabes confessing, "That's when reality set in. That's when I realized one of us would be going home!" and you wouldn't even roll your eyes or scream in agony. You would actually think, "Wow, I can't believe another aspiring bricklayer has to go home already!"
This week, I realized that I'm done with the aspiring demographic. I am thoroughly sick of the hopeful this or the struggling that. I don't want to hear about their lifelong dreams or their crappy jobs at Wal-Mart back home. I'm through with the way they miss their awesome boyfriends, girlfriends, wives, children, dogs, parents and third cousins. I don't want to know how bad they want this. And most of all, I don't care at all about the moment they realized that one of them would be going home soon. I want them all to go home.
Either that, or ship them off to an island with their awesome boyfriends and girlfriends and husbands and wives and children and see if they're still so awesome after a herd of whoring sea donkeys armed with flaming Jägermeister shots and fruit-flavored condoms stampedes in.
