Sunday, July 10, 2005

Get thee behind me, Satan

They've been airing the commercials for this heap of shit for the past three or four weeks. I've made a pact with myself that if I happen to watch even a minute of this show voluntarily, I will chop my dick off and eat it. Apparently, a millionaire record producer (who's recorded albums for such luminaries as Celine Dion and Kenny G.) is "tired" of his adult stepsons living off his money and is now "cutting them off." They have to find ingenious ways to raise money to survive on the mean streets of Trust Fund, USA, and we're supposed to sit on our couches and laugh heartily at this grotesque public display of obscene wealth and meaningless, pampered existence. Look at this asshole, his asshole stepsons, and the pile of hand soap, silicone, hairdye and chipmunk skulls that has somehow been fashioned into the female matriarch of this collection of fucksacks. This record producing jerk stares into the camera, fondling a handful of money, and grinning smugly, while he intones, even more smugly, "I'm cuttin' 'em off." Hee hee. He also says, false modesty gangraping arrogance while tact cries alone and ignored in the corner, "I've written and produced a few songs that did alright." (Cut to footage of him winning a Grammy for producing some horseshit.) A fucking Grammy. If I won a Grammy, I would find someone I hate and give the award to his dog. Never mind the fact that the whole pretence of this show is false. One of the stepsons has a band, produced by the stepfather, and this is their crass, vulgar, dishonest way of advertising it. Some day, I can only hope that a reality show about this family concludes with Record Producer Jerk stabbing his wife and stepsons, cutting Celine Dion open and feasting on her entrails, shoving Kenny G.'s phallic half-sax down his throat, and finally, turning the blade on himself while tears fall on the pile of worthless records he's devoted his life to recording. Fuck that guy.


Bartleby said...

Crap, now you've done it.

I watched the show, under the auspice's of "Mr. and Mrs. Teenage Fashion Show should watch 30 minutes of TV together before retreating, respectively, into their piles of books about building robots and post-structuralism,” and it has now created a "no reality TV" rule in the house.

To be brief: this cockblock "opens" with the aforementioned record producing asshole narrating the eureka moment when he allegedly decided he'd had enough. So, we see him and his wife on vacation in Malibu while his mischevious asshole sons are planning and throwing a gigantic party in his vacuous McMansion. Then we see them in a limo heading home (oh, the hilarity that ensues when the parents call their trip off early! if only that EVER FUCKING HAPPENED except on episodes of Full House), trying to call the drunken sons (who, I will give them props where it is do, are able to wrangle a house-load of hot, pantsless Cali debutantes), and the, of course, being entirely “surprised” when there is a raging party at their house (and did I mention that there is a horny, voyeuristic Spanish gardenner who is yelled at for comic relief? did they test market race-baiting their black cook first?)

Of course the inherent problem with the structure of all of this, which is what was making my hair fall out, is that the THIS WHOLE GODDAM FUCKING THING WAS BEING FILMED! Do the Frito-Laid braintrusts of America not realized that the entire premise for the show is IMPOSSIBLE since the premise had to be developed, sold, financed, committeed, optioned, and fucking FILMED before the show, which allegedly displays the organic origins of the premise, could even exist? Ditto the scenes that follow: the "family meeting" where they decide to cut the kids off, the ass-clenching synchronicity of the dad cutting off their credit cards just as the sons "happen" to be dining at Nobu, etc. etc. For christ sake, just two days before the AP ran a story on how the "writers/editors" of these reality shows are bringing a class-action lawsuit alleging sweatshop conditions (i.e., they have to manipulate hundreds of hours of footage into some sort of narrative structure and, apparently, are being denied piss and meal breaks or something. of course, the problem for them is that for the industry to formally recognize their endeavor, it would have to acknowledge the fabricated nature of this reality horseshit.) And the coup de grating, as you point out, is that the real purpose of the show is to publicize the errant son’s band (discussed, soundtracked, and displayed prominently throughout the show), which means the kid really is figuring out a way to earn his keep on your dime and that he is something worse than spoiled and lazy: he’s mendacious and manipulative.

So there you go. Though I must add that the show gets one phenomena right, that has been troubling me a great deal lately: at exactly what moment in U.S. history did it become acceptable for moms to openly lust after their sons, and why does this grotesque, incestuous tendency only seem to materialize with the very rich and the trailer park poor?

Bartleby said...
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kristykay said...

I think you would all change your mind about this show if you could only attend the Fox Promotional Barbeque. Some Vivacious Veggieburgers would straighten you right out.