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.