Bah, I say. Bah, bah, bah, and more bah. To what? I’m glad you asked.

TV. TV and I have been on very poor terms over the last few months. Why? Because TV used to pamper me, relieve me through entertainment. TV used to console me after those long days slaving away on the plantation for The Man. Well TV has failed to be entertaining. I mean, without digital cable, I get over 80 channels. The only shows I really ache to watch are South Park, The Simpsons, CSI, Smallville, and The Sopranos. That’s a really small sample given the current number of programs on network, cable, and premium cable. The reason for the tension is quite simple: TV, like any other form of mass media, has given into trends.

These reality shows… man, we can’t find bin Laden, but we can churn out those reality show concepts, can’t we? Who watches these fucking things? Who is actually entertained by them? Now let me say, I have a lot fewer complaints about talent-based shows like American Idol. I’m not thrilled with the fact that the show tries to put strict labels on people and consciously attempts to guide them on their “style,” but to be honest, some of these folks can really sing, and I can appreciate that. I bitch a lot about style over substance, sure, and there is something to that argument. But at the end of the day, good tunes is good tunes, no two ways about it. I’m getting soft in my old age. But back to the topic, those types of reality shows I really don’t mind. Even the “get eighteen divergent personalities and stick ‘em in a house for eight months” type shows don’t bug me as much, because the people onscreen deserve massive amounts of drama if they’re stupid enough to showcase their private lives to the world. It’s called karma.

No, see I’m talking about this new crop of shows that involves marriage. You know… The Bachelor(ette), Joe Millionaire, Married By America, Mr. Personality, and on and on down the line. They disgust me. They offend me as a human being. I’m offended by the fact that lowlife TV execs are anxious to toy with people’s emotions, and I’m baffled by the fact that people actually want to participate, thinking they’re gonna meet a legitimate lifemate on these fuckers.

You dolts.

You don’t meet your husband or wife after ten weeks of filming. Your courtship doesn’t normally involve a cameraman… unless you’re getting someone to videotape “Whips and Chains Night.”

(Note to self: review video collection and destroy all pertinent evidence of “Whips and Chains Night.”)

Y’know, now that I think about it, the old “note to self” technique really doesn’t work well on a web journal. I’ll have to rethink my strategy. *Ahem* Moving along…

Point is, point is, love doesn’t work that way. Granted, I really don’t know what love is, but I’m convinced it doesn’t work that way, and I’m sure most reasonably intelligent people would agree with me. It takes time. It might even start out as hate, or disinterest. It grows over time like a child, or a flower. It takes on a shape and life of its own and exists as a mutual bond between two people. It doesn’t just bloom over the promise of a few million dollars and an all-expenses-paid wedding.

I love the current campaign on Comedy Central, the one where they advertise fake reality shows so absurd you can’t help but bust a gut. I was especially fond of the South Park episode which suggests that the planet Earth is actually one big reality show. And I love Howard Stern’s idea for a show in which deprived orphans vie for the affection of a rich couple who will adopt one child only. Why? Because it’s only a matter of time before these executives run out of ideas and start taking these suggestions seriously.

Maybe I’m morose, but entropy fascinates me. Not from a cultural or international standpoint, but in terms of the entertainment industry, it’s a riot. It shows just how shallow and desperate Hollywood is. I mean, c’mon. Watch E! once in awhile. You’ll see more assholes than a Turkish customs agent. Celebrities are so phony that we enjoy watching them derail on the road to success. Likewise, I enjoy watching the products of tired, worn-out, hackneyed imaginations. I mean, not actually watching the products themselves, I couldn’t live with myself, then. What I’m talking about is seeing what kind of cockamamie concoction awaits on the horizon. People compare these shows to train wrecks, but is it really as fun if you can see the train coming from a mile away? If I know that both drivers are loaded on Jim Beam and crank, I’m not gonna stick around to watch what happens, I’m going to be afraid that I’ll get caught in the crash somehow and I’m gonna make a beeline for the mountains. Similarly, I refuse to watch these shows partly because I’m human, and I fear that I would get sucked into the increasingly vacuous black hole called modern television. I theorize that most people watch these shows just to keep up on water cooler talk at the office. Personally, I’d rather be talking about hockey or golf, but that’s me.

But in all honesty, reality shows help me in a way. They don’t make me feel better about myself by watching the nimrods who grace the screen, pining for their fifteen minutes. They make me feel better by listening to the nimrods who organize their week around the latest flavor of the month. God, people are stupid. Get some cash together and go to a spa or something. Just do something with yourself if you’re that wrapped up in a stupid show about stupid people that isn’t a sitcom. Makes me feel better about my pending social life.

However, the aspect of these reality shows that gets me more than anything is how executives and producers and writers all thumb their noses at marriage. I was brought up to believe that marriage is a sacred bond, and despite the cardboard cutout souls gracing my TV screen, I still believe it to be so. I can’t believe that some people actually don’t mind having their private lives shown to a nationwide audience once a week for an hour at a time. When did common sense die, why didn’t I read the obituary and why wasn’t I informed about the funeral?

I would never agree to have my marriage broadcast on network TV. If my marriage is gonna be viewed by millions, then those millions have to pay $200 a head just like everyone else in attendance. No one’s getting off light, here. I’ve got honeymoon bills to pay, and that wedding singer ain’t cheap. So cough up the cash, America, Ricky and Mrs. Ricky wanna go to Aruba.

But seriously, folks, get with it, alright? These shows are pathetic, and if you watch them, I feel you’re made more pathetic. Don’t give into the drug. Because that’s what these shows are, they are drugs. They create addicts and breed morons. However, I like the fact that they make it easier to weed out the morons. ‘Cause I don’t want morons at my wedding. And neither would Mrs. Ricky.

But there is one shimmering light, one last hope for the future in the vast televised wasteland of America circa 2003 A.D.

Monster Garage.

What a bloody brilliant show. Tattooed metalhead greasemonkeys pining for money and tools by taking automobiles and transforming them into mechanical hybrid monstrosities. Where else could you watch a P.T. Cruiser get converted into a woodchipper? That’s just genius. Hell, if they could make a Harley Davidson/lawnmower crossbreed, I just might actually get around to cutting the grass on a weekly basis. And I must say, it’s a beautiful thing to watch a Chevy Suburban slowly become a mobile wedding chapel. Brought a tear to my eye. Hell, while we’re at it, let’s call up those dickheads at Fox and get a cross-promotional deal going? Mr. Personality and that shallow gold-digging bride-to-be of his could get married in that Suburban wedding chapel! And I’m sure the good Reverend Jesse James would be happy to preside over the ceremonies. Provided he gets to remove the groom’s mask with his beloved plasma cutter.

Now that’s great TV, people.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.