infamous

I am not a fan of reality television. Television is about escape, not about watching people eat rancid reindeer rectums for the opportunity to marry someone who had massive plastic surgery after winning a record contract while trying to escape a desert isle. The only reality television I approve of is the kind where designers (with taste; that’s not you, Hildy) go in and fix up someone’s house or a homo (or group of homos, lesbos, gender queers, or other flavors of sexuality) takes a person who dresses like Roseanne used to and gives them a whole new wardrobe: both of those kinds of shows are a huge service to the community. That said, I accidentally watched a little of one of the newest reality shows, Hit Me Baby One More Time. The only reason I saw any of it was because I was doing my little hand weights workout when it suddenly came on the TV. I had a choice: interrupt my sets and reps to change the channel or continue down the path toward godly python arms. How bad could it be? I figured, unaware of the horror that lay before me. For I tell you, brethren, horror it was. I have seen the first sign of the end of times, and it was this: Wang Chung rendition of Nelly’s “It’s Getting Hot in Here”. Rather watch the seas boil and the moon turn as blood than see that. At least they didn’t win the competition, though: Irene Cara did that with her weak and warbly version of “What a Feeling” and some other new song that she also did a crappy job of. Is fame really such a delicious experience that people are willing to sell their dignity, anything and everything they possess just to taste it? Here’s hoping I never know.