Sanctity Insanity

So I’ll start off today’s post with some housekeeping.

I am going to try some new “short form” blogging, which translates to me cutting my rambling diatribes down to around 250-500 words.

This experimental format didn’t happen when my friend Ron Reed graciously tolerated a guest post by me on his incredible blog entitled, If I Had a Blog. You can go straight to my long winded lament on the romantic comedy film genre HERE. While you’re over there, look around and be entertained by the host of talent he offers up.

In related news, I am going to unleash a bunch of film related posts next week in honor of The Academy Awards. I’ll reflect on a few film favorites and various trends I’ve noticed throughout the entertainment industry. Hold your breath, it will be so worth passing out for.

Turning to fantastic happenings over this last week, I might be the last guy to find out about THIS, but Ben Thompson and his Bad Ass of the Week awesomeness certainly made my week. Ben proves not all historians are shirts stuffed full of boring! (I mean we have always known we are a bunch of party animals and now you know it too, or at least you will after you visit his blog). Ok, now on to the post and you better not think for a minute I am counting all of this stuff as part of my word count!

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Today I thought I’d toss a little recognition out to my many friends in the Gay and Lesbian Community. I know, there are some other categories that get added into that community now days, but I really don’t know that snappy acronym. So rest assured, I respect you no matter what your sexual or gender identity is. I’m not exaggerating when I say you are some of my most amazing friends (don’t panic straight folks; I love you to, having lived as one of you lo these many years). Anyway, this post is all about respect, or perhaps more accurately, the lack of self-respect.

Honestly, if I have to listen to one more gaseous blob pontificate about the sanctity of marriage and how it needs to be “defended” from same-sex couples, I just might resort to laying down a little Charles Bronson flavored payback. Shall we visit the state of sanctity in marriage? (Look at a map; it is right next to Ohio).

Today’s definition of sanctity is brought to you by reality TV. Here you will find washed up rock stars and other assorted M-List celebrities bumping bellies with skanky groupies and gold diggers; all of whom are vying with fourteen other pod people for the title of “Lowest Self-Esteem.” This title comes with the grand prize of an engagement proposal from the aforementioned nobody. (Who noticed Brett Michaels did three seasons of this thespian showcase while openly pursuing a long-time relationship with the mother of his children? I know 42 out-of-work strippers who missed that detail).

Today, I’ll cut your cable bill in half by running down the entire plotline to every one of these putrid offerings. If you choose to mail me a portion of your savings, that would be really cool of you but it isn’t expected. Just know that I suffered so you don’t have to!

Opening day of the season, everybody is smiling and kissing ass in some cheesy resort location. They keep telling you how exclusive it all is, but you can clearly see the low end buffet and the VIP clichés, so it’s hard to catch the mood. Weird back stories about how everybody has spent their whole life crying out for attention.

Day 2, somebody remembers they actually have self esteem and storms off the set. If we are really lucky, the spouse of one of the contestants shows up and drags their cheating ass home to “work on our marriage.”

Days 3-11, the “star” proceeds to clumsily manipulate the pool of contestants, aided by never ending streams of alcohol and deft camera edits; these folks never seem to remember they are competing with fourteen other people until directly after they give up the goods in a hot tub on National TV. Hurt feelings and insults fly and everybody tells the camera what they think; which if you pay attention is some amazing acting, brainless people pretending to think I mean. Some sort of poorly negotiated contract also forces everybody to constantly praise the star and say how awesome they are, even though this person disguises all that coolness really well by constantly acting like an asshole.

Day 12 is just a replay of everything you just stomached with a silly musical montage dubbed over it. Oh yeah, that third contestant who just spent the whole hour telling everyone how sure they were that they were in, gets booted off the show in what we will call, “Beepapalooza.” Writers take the day off and they just run the profanity beeper constantly as this person storms off the set.

Day 13 should be the end of your ordeal, but it’s not. This is reunion day. They bring everybody back for one more shot at reliving their most humiliating and desperate moments. Most of the screen time goes to the “one that got away.” Viewers by this point should be hoping they’d all just get away.

Day 14 and here it is, decision time! Not really though. It’s another recap of every moment in the season where tonight’s two remaining contestants skanked or shanked their way past the competition. Of course, this is liberally interspersed with commercials. This advertising bonanza presumably paid for this herd to sit around for six weeks at a resort whose last good year was during Reagan’s presidency. It shows, with check cashing services and pay-as-you-go cell phones dominating the mix.

At exactly the 116th minute of the 120 minute show (Yes, lucky for us it's a two-hour finale), the egotistical fool will pick the victi…err I mean winner. Then the shunned one reenacts “Beepapalooza” for the entertainment of the viewing masses while the plastic couple is whisked away in some horrendously cringe-worthy vehicle. Whisked from the set, straight into the arms of waiting tabloid reporters who will pay them nominal sums of petty cash to feed their delusions of celebrity; while crushing any trace of their remaining self worth during the off season.

Yeah, I know, I totally failed on that word count thing, but things had to be said. Take it out of my cable bill kickbacks.