minalisms

I hate trashy reality TV. First, because when I’m flipping through the billion channels of nothing interesting, I always, always land on VH1, where scandal, lies and high-pitched shouting suck me into the vortex of vapid entertainment. But primarily because of regret.

You see, I distinctively recall a night in 2002 or 2003 when Cousin No. 225 and I were discussing The Bachelor.

“You know what would be funny? A ghetto version of The Bachelor,” one of us offered.

Well, there obviously was a mole in the room because, soon after, audiences all over the country were given the following classics, from which skanky teenagers found their heroes, MTV and its sister channel found its fortune, and my cousin and I found ourselves bamboozled: 

Flavor of Love, Rock of Love, A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila, I Love New York, For the Love of Ray J — I swear, there is no end to this humiliating garbage.

Where do these people come from? Why didn’t their parents smack the slutty out of them years ago? When will someone invent a TV that allows me to reach in and choke the person onscreen?

Sure, my cousin and I thought our concept was brilliant, but we never believed that there would be people out there effed up enough to be cast in our series. But we gave humanity too much credit. How silly of us.