I absolutely love watching drama unfold. I adore a good cat fight. Backstabbing, lying, manipulating, cheating? Tell me when and where. Luckily enough, my upper-crust high school and participation in Greek life have ensured that my life, thus far, has never been devoid of just that. You’d think I’d have had my fill by my 21st birthday, but as it turns out, my desire for scandal is insatiable. I’m a total bitch who loves watching failure, so…surprise, surprise: I’m OBSESSED with Reality TV.
To me, reality television is like a drug: a lot of fun, but should only be made available to those who can handle it properly and use it with discretion. For example, if acid was readily available, I’m pretty sure I would have spent the past few years of my life staring at a wall and trying to catch the leprechaun that taunts me every time I toy with hallucinogenics (he’s so annoying). Just kidding. Being the mature, responsible adult I am, I know that acid, along with its washed denim counterpart, is better left in the 80s as far as I’m concerned. Anyway, when I say “discretion,” I’m not referring to the questionable values that reality tv may impress among the youth, mainly because I hate the youth, I don’t believe in values, and I also think it’s ridiculous that parents expect televisions to babysit & raise their children. The next time someone blames tv on their child’s actions, I’m shoving a Direct TV remote down their throat. Oh, really, your kid learned to behave that way from the 30 minutes a week he/she caught of a television show, and not the way you act towards others or they way you behave? That’s fascinating. Stop breeding.
I digress. What I love about reality TV is that it makes me feel good about myself. The shows and characters are completely unrealistic to the viewers, and it makes me feel a little more normal. I’m very proud of myself for making it through my teen years without getting inseminated, and that Teen Mom is a group that I’ll never belong to. Teen Mom actually is my favorite to watch when I’m feeling particularly down on myself – at least I have all my teeth, a semi-functional family, can properly pronounce all the syllables of the words I say (unlike the backwoods/Appalachian-hailing stars), and have a fully-intact vagina. The same holds true for all other reality shows – I remind myself that no matter how slutty I may think my wardrobe is, I will never own enough sheer fabric to rival a Kardashian, and regardless of how bleak my dating prospects look, I vow to never be on The Bachelor (unless they like, begged me to be, in which case, I’m available. Let me know, I can clear my schedule). I’ve blacked out once or twice in my day, but I’ve never acted like an idiot to the degree of the Jersey Shore cast, combined. I love wine (and vodka, and tequila) but I’m nowhere close to Intervention status. So, for that, I must say I adore the idea of reality television for giving me a scale to measure my impending insanity off of.
That being said, I feel as though not everyone has utilized reality television as the learning tool it truly is. Quite the opposite, I fear. What am I trying to say? THE NEXT TIME I HEAR SOME FAT GDI TALKING ABOUT HOW SHE AND HER FRIENDS “NEED” A REALITY SHOW, I’M THROWING A LOUBOUTIN. Yes, reality TV is entertaining, and has given ordinary people with zero talent a chance at stardom, but now, all of a sudden, everyone thinks they are fucking television-worthy. Newsflash: you’re not. Reality TV has given people unrealistic expectations for the outcome of their lives. Ever wonder why Jersey Shore had so much success? It’s because it was semi-groundbreaking. No, dumb ass, you’re not “the next” Snooki, because Snooki already happened. Making a mediocre batch of cupcakes for your family get together does not qualify you for your own bakery show. Why not? DC Cupcakes, Cake Boss, Ace of Cakes. I’m bored, and I’m only three shows into the list. Wait, I think there might only be three shows in production about bakeries. Care to know why? That’s all we need.
We all know those girls that go out every weekend in their Forever 21 outfits, slamming cheap shots they buy for themselves before leaving with the amateur boxer/DJ/UFC fighter/motocross racer/tattoo artist of choice. We all see them, and judge them accordingly, while they stumble past Starbucks the next morning on their way to Dunkin Donuts (earth-shattering levels of NS), now wearing their Tapout/Affliction/Fox Racing oversized one-night-stand souvenir T-shirt over last night’s outfit, cheap heels in hand. These are the same girls that will later, loudly laugh in Poli Sci discussion about how hard they raged the night before, how crazy they are, and how they just “need their own show.” No, you don’t, bitches, because we’ve all seen it before, and it’s called “Daddy Issues That I’m Not Quite Sure if the Geed From My Freshman Dorm Ever Worked Out Because I Moved Into A Sorority House and Never Saw Her Again.” Or something like that, anyway.
My point, exactly? Stop thinking you can become a pseudo-celebrity just because you can relate to people on reality TV. They were on a show because they filled a niche executives felt was empty, and now there’s no more room. Now grow up and move on like the rest of us, and realize that it’s far better to strive to have a membership at a country club (and a senator husband. Jackie O, I die. I adore you) than to be VIP at some skeezy night club for like, 6 months.
And stop trying to make “swag” happen. It’s not going to happen.
Nice Move320
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