VH1 should be renamed. Remember when it showed (oh, what do you call those brightly colored, three minute thingies?) videos? Unfortunately, the channel has cordoned off a scant one hour of programing specifically related to those thingies and the rest has become a haven for those who just can't get enough CELEBRITY DATING SHOWS!!!!
Are you one of them? They have help for such folly... I think it's called A LIFE!
Seriously, thirty beautiful women - lacking actual careers and, dare I surmise, marketable job skills - strap on their hair extensions and fight over the species to your left. Seriously, would you date him? And when I say fight, I mean erupt in b***h slapping, hair-pulling, 'your momma' insults and the ever popular backstabbing. Really, how do these chicks manage to walk upright in stilettos with a machete so deeply lodged in their spines? Many of these long-legged samples spackle on enough make up to lend a conservative visage to drag queens and we're supposed to root for them based on the displayed talent of cattiness. (anyone remember New York?)
After one season of clawing past whiners to win the gold-toothed heart of Flav, a new batch was summoned from a porn casting couch to battle for the prize to your right. Apparently, Bret's time with Poison didn't introduce him to his eternal angel among the groupies. Have you noticed that despite multiple seasons of both Emmy-worthy shows, neither fella has found true love? Why? Because everlasting devotion isn't grown under the unflattering lights of reality TV. You've got a better chance of finding your soulmate stocking the nut aisle at the local Whole Foods. Naked.
I remember dating (through the haze of a decade's sabbatical) but I don't recall ever having to lower my shame tolerance and compete for men who are clearly in it to rekindle their dwindling celebrity. The women must pole dance, take lie detector tests to prove their love (having been nurtured for two days) is true. Let's face it, the guys aren't looking for forever... they, like their suitors, are on a quest for fifteen minutes and since the viewing public digs a catfight, they'll get it.
Stop watching, people! It only perpetuates the mind-numbing cycle. After all, the aforementioned New York got her own show and now we've got season one of Ray J, who must be a celebrity of impressive caliber since I've never heard of him (though at least he doesn't hurt my retinas). You have to wonder what sort of person needs to go to such lengths to find a date? Surely even Match.com would accept an account from B-listers.
And I have to wonder why I, who protest the existence of such fare, know so much about them?