We’re all reality television addicts around here from way back. In the old days, I was riveted to TLC’s A Wedding Story, followed by the inevitable A Baby Story. No matter how many times I saw a woman give birth in a bathtub, I sobbed, even as my own children drifted away toward the far corners of the house. That was fine. If I was lucky, they’d stay away long enough for me to watch Real Life ER.
Tonight, it’s Fear Factor, Last Comic Standing, and Real World. During dinner, Biggy asked if he could sign us up for Fear Factor. I told him I wouldn’t have any trouble being catapulted into a pig pen or getting past the 300-lb.Rottweilers in the make-believe junkyard, but since I don’t know the calorie count in a maggot milkshake, there’s no way I could drink it.
For years now, I’ve waited for MTV to come up with the Real Real World, my idea: Take those spoiled brat college kids who are expecting to live in a renovated lighthouse in Boston or a bungalow on Fiji and stick them in a double-wide in Austell. Instead of producing records or painting murals with inner city youth, put them to work at Bi-Lo, stocking shelves and frying chicken.
Then the camera crew can follow them to Karaoke Night at Brunswick Lanes to see if they drink too much PBR. The tramp can get pregnant out by the dumpster, the gay guy (or girl) can hook up with the high school guidance counselor, the bulimic can puke up her nachos in the ladies’ room, and the Mormon or Quaker can have a crisis of faith during Cosmic Bowling.