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On Monday night, the second
season of "The Anna Nicole Show" premiered on E!
and I realized something very, very important: There is nobody
on the planet that makes me feel better about my life than
Anna Nicole Smith. There is nothing more entertaining - nay,
there is nothing more comforting - than watching a bunch of
retards whose lives suck more than mine, which is the whole
reason reality TV was invented in the first place. Bring on
the popcorn and unplug the phone, when Anna’s on, I feel
like Princess Diana -- you know, before she died
The season premiere was broadcast live and narrated by Paul
"America's Butler" from" Joe Millionaire"(OK,
no one really calls him that because I just made it up, but
I'm hoping it will catch on, so from now on, please refer
to him as "America's Butler") It featured five obviously
gay guys in ill-fitting rented tuxedos competing to be Anna's
boyfriend and it started out with the Queen of Crap herself,
riding a horse she most certainly outweighed to meet the aforementioned
gay dorks in tuxedos. A can of whipped cream, a winning lottery
ticket, and a visit from Scott Baio couldn’t have made
me any happier than watching this twisted cocktail of one
part "Joe Millionaire," one part "The Bachelorette,"
and one part "The Dating Game." Is this is a great
country, or what? Next week she's going camping. I can't wait
to see Anna “rough it."
Thank God for reality TV. Without it I would be stuck watching
grainy video transmissions of Saddam whats-his-name making
vague threats about war or world annihilation (whatever) or
worse yet, another rerun of "Friends." And let me
tell you something else, if I have to watch one more freaking
second of Ray Romano doing his "please-have-sex-with-me-you-mean-suburban-wife"
thing, I think I will put a gun in my mouth. Well, maybe not
a gun. But I sure will do something bad to myself - anything
to protest the sheer magnitude of bad sitcoms about whiny
middle-aged men with whiny middle aged wives and their whiny
(yet undeniably WACKY!) middle aged neighbors/families/friends/grocers/veterinarians/crack
dealers.
Thanks to the miracle that is reality television, the "Anna
Nicole Show" is not like other shows. Oh, there’s
plenty of whining all right, so don’t worry about that.
What makes it more special is that it’s REAL whining
about REAL stuff. For instance, poor Anna spent thousands
of dollars on a really cool designer bedspread that didn’t
turn out to be the right color of puke. I mean, pink. Now
this is something worth bitching about, am I right? Screw
the bills and the laundry and threats of terrorism– Anna’s
bedspread is the wrong frigging color pink! What will she
do? How will she resolve this crisis? Will we get to see her
CRY??? I love it when Anna cries.
Anna’s life makes mine look positively dreamy so watching
her always makes me feel good. Well, maybe not always. Sometimes
I feel sort of guilty after watching her but that’s mostly
because by the time I realize I have been sucked into the
vortex of the trainwreck of her life, its usually like 11:00
o'clock at night and my dog has peed all over the floor because
I have been swatting him away so I don’t miss anything.
But that’s not really Anna’s fault. Most of the
time I leave Anna’s world feeling pretty doggone good
about my own little corner of Suckville, USA because she appears
to be they mayor of hers.
The bottom line is that Anna and all those like her serve
a very real purpose – and that is, of course, to make
me and you feel like our lives are not just big piles of crapola.
Also, to distract us from all of the stuff out there that
may otherwise capture our attention and make us sad. Like
war and stuff. She deserves our respect, our admiration, or
at the very least, our viewership. And I, for one will be
there Sunday night as she dons her camouflage sweatpants and
her four inch heels to brave the wild and spend some quality
time with her son. Maybe she will spear a fish with her acrylic
nails! Who knows? You can be sure of one thing, though, it
will be one zany adventure and not one person will mention
that pesky Arab dude.
Read The Media Whore's
article on "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here"
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