Saturday, March 3, 2012

Nurse the Hate: Hate the Real Housewives

The weather is shitty like it always is in NE Ohio in March. Trying to maintain my tenuous hold on looking like a normal human being, I have been running inside at my Horror Show of a gym. My usual treadmill routine is to put my iPod on, and watch SportsCenter show me Jeremy Lin and LeBron highlights while I blankly stare ahead. For whatever reason, I have not been able to secure the ESPN centered treadmill this week, and instead have been left watching the Bravo cable network while I do 3-4 miles.

If you are not familiar with the Bravo Network, that is because you are probably not a woman in your thirties through fifties looking to escape into unreality shows. I think Bravo used to air highbrow arts programming like theater productions, opera, and dance, but the ratings made it clear rather quickly that almost no one actually likes live theater, opera, or dance, much less video playback of these events. That led them to get into the business of inexpensively producing “reality” shows like Real Housewives of whatever swanky community, the Kardashion Sisters nonsense, and my own personal albatross “Million Dollar Listing”. I have so much bile for “Chad”, the thirty year old agent that looks and acts like he’s 13, I may need to seek outside counseling to avoid having an incident happen. I would think "the incident" would involve a cross country drive, a pistol, and police helicopters with bullhorns demanding for me to “put down the gun and stop making the little boy cry”.

The Real Housewives and Kardashian shows are interesting in that it’s a major puzzle to figure out who is paying for all the shit these people are doing. No one ever appears to work, and certainly don’t even appear to be capable of holding any type of job. Honestly, I can't imagine anyone on those shows doing anything productive. The women all just walk around as if money doesn’t exist, although some appear to have husbands and male benefactors. Who the hell are those guys? I’m not sure how a financially successful man puts himself in that position. I think if your wife/girlfriend came home and decided she was going to try to be on that show, it would be a clear indication you could have found a much better partner for your life. It also may occur to you that now would be a good time to cut her loose in a horrific divorce, as the ensuing drama would be “good TV”. That way everyone wins.

It is also fascinating to look at the plastic surgery disasters on display. Something to note is that as the hips of the women expand as they age, they give themselves larger breast implants and lip injections to try to balance it out. They are all bleached blonde and are like low rent Pam Anderson clones without the true craziness or hepatitis C. But it is the men that are really fascinating. Why do they play up the role of emotional support to these women? Why even bother pretending that your relationship is anything else than you providing them with material possessions? Those women are prostitutes you pay in cars and shopping trips to look good, and I would assume, make them do unspeakable things to you when the Bravo camera crew leaves for the night. “You want the Gucci? Put the lotion in the basket! Put the lotion in the basket! You’re not filming this, are you?”

They are all pretty good looking from far away. Then when the camera zeros in, you can really focus in on all the plastic surgery that has left them looking somewhat off and odd. That is the one immediate downside I see being with one of these women. I think it would be like having sex with a rubber sex doll with all that plastic surgery. They would look up at you with everything staying frozen in place, calculating their next purchase, their dead doll’s eyes looking blankly at you. When you “finish”, I think clean up would involve a spray cleaner and a roll of Bounty.

Another question I have is why do all these women have children that are total losers? It does answer some of the questions about nature vs nurture, doesn't it? You would imagine that if you raised kids in a “good” community with “good” schools, most of the kids would by default wind up at decent colleges where they could get down to their prime directive of beer bongs and date rape. However, almost every time a son or daughter gets some screen time, it’s to bitch about how they didn’t get the top position at whatever short-lived job they were given despite having no education or experience. “I like started a week ago in the parts department, but I want to be the parts manager so I can have an office and be out in front. Plus those guys make like 100k, and I need more money.” This coming from a twenty year old that has worked a total of 14 hours in his life, has a horrible tribal tattoo on his neck, and appears to be high all the time. “Manny, I know you scratched and clawed your way to parts manager after 17 years of service, but we have to give Justin here the job. He’s my new step son, and I really don’t want to be bitched at on national TV by my new wife about not taking care of the little fuck.”

The amazing thing about those shows is that every single person on them seems to be more shallow and clueless than the next. There are literally no “good guys” to root for. Everything they get involved with is unimportant and hollow. How they spend their time is almost criminal. Each of them on the show must know that they are edited to look as cruel and shallow as possible, yet their desire to be famous for anything makes them forget that the world knows them as assholes. I hate them. I hate them all. The worst part? I had the opportunity to grab my favorite treadmill smack dab in front of the ESPN TV. I didn’t take it though. Nope. I took the one closer to the Bravo TV so I could watch Real Housewives while I scanned ESPN. I hoped no one noticed. I ran through my shame. The self-loathing was like fuel. I hated myself. Yet, I couldn’t turn away. There’s a party for one of the girls today. I hope Tamra and Jeana aren’t fighting…


Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home