More Personal Fail


I really do like to think of myself as an erudite snob who fills his days reading Guy Debord, Michel Foucault, Marcel Proust and other pretentious shit who uses my well-read wealth of knowledge to go to sporting events and write about them. I thumb my nose at all of this reality television nonsense and mourn for the days when programming had more substance.

Well all of that is bullshit. Television has always been an empty passive experience bereft of any substance. And the snob that I liken myself to be is actually a letter off – I’m a slovenly slob who does fall prey to these abhorrent displays of false reality.

When the Real Housewives of Orange County first started in 2006, I told myself to avoid it like the plague. Nothing good could come of it. So I did. I blissfully restrained my reality television viewing vices to Project Runway and America’s Next Top Model.* Week after week went by and blogs would recap the goings on at Coto and gossip about Lauri’s kids and what not, and I was blissfully unaware.

But then on an idle weekend afternoon I went through the channels and was saw that Bravo was doing a Real Housewives Marathon. And for some reason – whether it be a broken thumb, a brain aneurysm, a broken television – my television stayed on Bravo. And for hours I just sat there like a man whose life support was about to be pulled complete with the drool.

End result: a wasted day, fatter ass and a couple of dead brain cells.

Each ensuing season I vowed to ignore the show. And inevitably I would get sucked into one of those ridiculous marathons. This is exactly what happened on Sunday. The characters are different, but the stories are essentially them same. This housewife hates the other housewife; they get put into a situation where they are forced to interact; hilarity ensues.

And there I stare gawking at all of this as the sun passes through the sky (but I wouldn’t know it since I’m watching Tamra talk about her lesbian kiss with Francesca or whatever her name is.) And I just feel dirtier as each second ticks by as if I was tied to a bed being pissed on by a big burly 50 year old whose screen name is “fistnpiss4u.”

So not only do I have no will power – as also evidenced by my inability to stop smoking – but I am a delusional pretentious fucker. How does anyone associate themselves with me?**

*If anyone had any doubt to my homosexuality, this should quell any doubts.

**This is a rhetorical question you fuckers.

Cigarette Count – Mon., May 9, 2011: 4.