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View My Stats, bitch.
It's really quite everything, and I do believe that Andy is correct and my weird dreams and the complete and total FUNK that has been hounding me for months is just due to a need for medication readjustment but for FUCK'S sake, it would be nice to just go for one day without finding myself in a daydream about violence and anger and jeebus shut up, self.
So I am wondering just when reality tv will reach critical mass and begin to implode, which will certainly be a sad day for me, because then I'll have to deal with REALITY instead of televised, scripted, manipulated, over-produced reality (yes, Britty, I mean YOU!) and I prefer to have my reality served up in a medium with an off switch, thank you very much. Oh, my, that was what we in the bidness like to call a "run-on sentence." It's ok to do that if you're Proust or Joyce, but just sloppy for the rest of us. I have recently watched (you know, while folding laundry and vacuuming a quart and a half of labrador from under a single chair) Miami Ink, which I liked a lot because who doesn't love a wacky tattooed Jew who has a Japanese apprentice? Who? But I am not sure about the staying power of Miami Ink, as drunk girls having the top of their butt crack tattooed can only go so far... HA! Of course I'm kidding. We could all watch Girls Gone Wild get tattooed til the cows come home! But really, other than "I used to be fat and now my Wile E. Coyote tattoo looks like a California Raisin" and "I used to be thin and this used to say 'Bean + Julie 4-Ever!' and now it looks like a nasty bruise," how long can this be sustained? There's also the ever-popular "I had a tattoo lasered off my ass, now I want a bigger, uglier one in its place" (something WorkSlut actually did, by the way, so if you ever meet a woman with a hideous tiger lily on her ankle, don't have sex with her because she probably has hepatitis C). Then there was something called, I think, Fight for Fame and this, my friend(s), is what reality tv was meant to be. Shriekingly, bowel-wrenchingly, gaggingly bad. Here's the premise: Some number (missed the beginning so I don't know how many started) of bimbos (bimboes? Yes, spelling IS important -- ask any potatoe) is vying (the verb agrees with the subject, not the object: Some number IS...) for a coveted spokesmodel position. It appears that this number is winnowed from six-ish to one in A SINGLE DAY (can anyone say CHEAP TO PRODUCE?). The bimbi (latin) are given lessons by an "acting coach," are photographed by a "professional photographer," and have other various and sundry tasks to accomplish. After each task, one girl is cast aside like yesterday's panties (unless you're Katy, then you eat yesterday's panties) and the others continue with their quest. The "gentlemen" doing this judging are the presidents of a talent agency, dudes who clearly have some articles of clothing made from human skin somewhere in their closets. Since I missed the beginning, I didn't know what the Holy Grail, the coveted place of authority, the LIFE-CHANGING opportunity that was the brass ring. This opportunity will CHANGE. MY. LIFE. they all said again and again and ... You get the trend. It turns out that the bullseye all were aiming for was a four-year scholarship to an Ivy League college, including living expenses and a lot of Post-Its. Not really. The prize was so much more life-changing than that. It was a spot as a Bacardi Green Apple chick. You know, to be in ads, go to parties, and stuff. Life changing, that would be. They cried at the very thought of having something this wonderful and magical and unattainable happen to them. The people who worked for Barcardi helped with the judging at some point, and said that one of the girls looked like a whore. Guess who won? Can you? Can you? Huh?
I'm guessing that's why I'm falling behind on the annual promotions -- not whorish enough. Plus, I go to work daily. Bad career moves.
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