Full Credits

Stats & Data

May 07, 2011

An open letter to television networks regarding "Reality TV"

I have a confession to make.   It’s not something I’m proud of, but I feel I need to get this off my chest.  I’m addicted to television.  “What?” I hear you say.  “That’s nothing to be worried about.  Hell, I spend more time watching television in a day than you do rubbing your dick against strangers.”  Well, that maybe, and I’m not entirely sure how you found out about my stranger rubbing fetish, but that’s a story for a different time.

No, I’m not talking about regular television like sitcoms, sports, or the shopping channel.  What I’m addicted to, and it pains me in my left testicle to say so, is reality television.  That’s right, I love watching ordinary douchebags do ordinary things that I ordinarily do in an ordinary day.  Nothing excites me more than sitting on my suspiciously stained couch, eating three month old Doritos, while frothing at the mouth waiting for something extraordinary to happen in the daily lives of these unworthy “celebrities”.

You may ask, “Why are you writing this to me, and who the hell are you?” To answer your questions: I am in dire need of rehab, and I am no one to be trifled with, unless you have cake and are willing to share.

Yes, I am desperate.  Not in the way which sends lonely men in to the cold, calculating arms of the local prostitute, but in the way a heroin addict needs to desperately take a hit, or your need for attention from Daddy, and the way which sends lonely men in to the cold, calculating arms of the local prostitute.  I need to stop watching reality T.V. before it sucks the remnants of my fickle soul and I wind up with my own reality show.

It all began way back in time when Hanson were still young, Lady Gaga had yet to exist, and the world had not yet seen Britney’s pink bits.  Yes, it was a simpler time. That is until an evil came forth transforming the beautiful forests, lakes, and pink, fluffy bunnies of television land in to grotesque creatures forever suckling at the teat of fame, and crapping dignity out of their much admired rears.

In 2001 a lovely little show was produced called Big Brother.  It gathered a random group of semi-attractive bogan’s, threw them together in the confines of a fake house and filmed their every move.  Oh, what joy it was to watch them sitting around on the couch, making breakfast, among other mundane acts, and occasionally special tasks that Big Brother would set for them.

Watching ordinary people with no talent on TV would captivate me 6 nights a week.  But on Thursday nights... that’s when it got good!  Big Brother Uncut gave me the change to see these contestants naked, showering, using the toilet, and talking about how much dick they could fit in their mouth whilst still having a conversation.

Yes, Big Brother was the start of the addiction...

How excited I became when real celebrities starred in their own reality shows.  Ozzy Osbourne, Jessica Simpson, Anna Nicole Smith, and those people that everyone forgot about desperately trying to cling to the now sagging teat of fame.  It didn’t matter how stupid the concept was, if you threw a celebrity in to the mix it was bound to be a success.

Unfortunately for my addiction, the reality TV trend does not seem to be coming to an end.  There seems to be more and more of the same reality shows where talentless people will gladly drop their pants and shove pineapples in their arse’s for the chance at 15 minutes of fame.  Then, of course, their are the singing shows.  Idol, X-Factor, Pop Stars...  Some genuinely talented people, and a lot of people that would be better shoving their head in the sand so they can get pinched by crabs (it’s not like they don’t already have crabs anyway), all wanting that pop/rock star success without actually putting any hard work in.

As the addiction crept in I could feel my brain slowly starting to rot away, and I’m pretty sure that if you were to do a brain scan on me now my head would look like half eaten, rotting Swiss cheese that had been intimate with Paris Hilton.  Sadly, this condition of brain rot has also been contracted by my children, and if the current plague of crappy shows continues it will affect their children too.

So, hear my plea, God of television, and please don’t make any more reality shows.  For if you do, I shall surely perish in a lavish display of stupidity, obnoxiousness, and with a pineapple up my ass.

Yours sincerely,

The television watching public.