September 9, 2005

• I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Reality television is trash.  It is trash in many ways. In fact, it sucks so horribly that the commercials usually end up sounding something like this: “THE BACHELORETTE SEASON 57, STARTING NEXT TUESDAY!  IT WILL BE TOTALLY DIFFERENT FROM THE OTHER SEASONS! WHY? *camera quickly flashes to some girl getting dressed up as a hairy man “BECAUSE ONE OF THE MALE CONTESTANTS IS THE BACHELORTTE’S IDENTICAL TWIN!...CRAP WE JUST GAVE IT AWAY! WHATEVER!…TUNE IN ANYWAY BECAUSE WE’RE GOING TO BRAINWASH ALL OF YOUR FRIENDS TO TALK ABOUT IT IN SCHOOL!”

  
  

   

  
  

  However, I’m starting to think that these commercials should be followed by a sort of cautionary message said by one of those speed talkers on medicine advertisements.  You know, the ones that mutter things like “Maycauseyoutogrowanextralimb,developtesticularcancer,bediagnosedwithaids,losealimb,havechronicdiarrhea, andinevitablydie,” as someone squirts the product up their nose and runs through some happy meadow with their partner because oh joy…she doesn’t have herpes anymore.

  
  

   

  
  

  The cautionary message that should be said following a reality television show commercial would be just like all the other ones.  Except, they should probably consider adding “Paris Hilton” to the list.  Right smack between ‘chronic diarrhea’ and ‘death’.

  
  

   

  
  

  Still, the number one reason reality television is trash is not because of its ability to completely destroy the human brain.  Despite that, reality television is not real at all. Not even much of a fantasy, either. The Bachelor? The Simple Life?  My Big, Fat, Obnoxious Fiancé?  Oh yeah. Because I just love reminiscing on the time that I, too, was paid $500, 000 to stage a marriage with some obese hairy lard-ass in order to afford that Bentley I always wanted and cause the rest of my family to contemplate joining the witness protection program.   

  
  

   

  
  

  If reality television accurately mirrors life, then maybe there really isn’t anything completely psychotic about hiring some hook-nosed Mary Poppins to spank your kids and say things like “Naughty, naughty”. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Or maybe there is something very, very wrong with that.

  
  

   

  
  

  If anything on television accurately mirrors life, it definitely would not be reality television.  Nor would it be the educational stuff like the History or Discovery Channel.  No, no.  If anything on television mirrors life, it’s not going to be a close up on cheetahs mating behind a boulder, of World War II reenactments or Sesame Street.  I was actually thinking more along the lines of soap operas.  “How the hell do soap operas mirror life?” you may ponder as you wave hello to your mother’s illegitimate son.  And the answer is pretty much right under your slightly plastic nose.  In fact, all you have to do is look into your own lives.  Or, if you’re too lazy to do that, you could look into mine.  Seriously.  My life is a soap opera.  Want proof?  Want evidence?  Fine.  Welcome to the Short Hills, bitch. 

  
  

   

  
  

  For some reason, that just doesn’t sound as intimidating.  Oh well.

  
  

   

  
  

  Girl Meets World: A Day in the Very Typical Life of Daryl S*i*c*ik

  
  

   

  
  

  The theme song is playing right now.  To my life, I mean.  It’s so strange.  Every time I wake up I’m on a beach dancing in the sunset.  I don’t even live near a beach, and it’s supposed to be morning.  However, I don’t ever have time to think things through because a second after that I’m in town, hanging with my friends, sipping a Starbucks Frappuccino.  And that stupid theme song won’t stop playing no matter where I am in the world.  Next thing I know, I’m walking to school with this blue ‘Starring Daryl Seitchik’ right below my feet.  And then the same thing happens to everyone else I’m associated with.  It pisses my friends off so much, having their names constantly following them everywhere.  It’s okay, though.  Because about four seconds after that I’m on the random beach again, skipping school.  The big blue words “Girl Meets World’ block me out for a few seconds, followed by ‘Directed by ImaJew Goldenbergschwartzstein.’  Whoever the hell that is.    By now, I’m usually exceedingly confused.  How did I get to all these different spots in a matter of thirty seconds?  Why is that song still playing? Will I ever ge-

  
  

   

  
  

  Commercial: Daryl, shut the fuck up.

  
  

   

  
  

  What the hell is going on?

  
  

   

  
  

  Commercial: Daryl!  IPod Nano is the new mini iPod!  Go buy one and be cooler than all of your friends!  Hungry? Grab a Snickers!  Never mind because you’re fat!  Join Weight Watchers! Be real with Coca Cola!  Depressed?  You might have testicular herpes! Here, have a Big Mac.

  
  

   

  
  

  Eventually, Commercial shuts up for about fifteen minutes after it goes into a random coma.  I’m alive again, back at home, back in the real world, eating my Cocoa Puffs.  By the way, Cocoa Puffs are made with Real Hershey’s Cocoa.  I just thought you should know that.  Anyway, I’m eating my Cocoa Puffs and probably talking to the random delinquent my family adopted who lives in our tool shed.  It’s not really a tool shed, though.  It’s actually bigger than the rest of the house.  However, we call it the tool shed because it’s sexy when delinquents live in supposedly smaller vicinities. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “For once nothing’s going on around here,” he says as we finish our Cocoa Puffs and mom and my step-dad, Peter, enter the room. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “Yeah,” Peter says, “It’s nice to have some peace and quiet once in awhile.”

  
  

   

  
  

  “I’m pregnant with our gardener’s baby,” mom says as she takes another sip of her coffee.

  
  

   

  
  

  “Haha,” I say, because ImaJew told me I’m supposed to provide comic relief for the show, whatever that means.

  
  

   

  
  

  After that, Commercial comes back with an advertisement for abstinence. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Man, time flies when you’re on a soap opera, because next thing I know, delinquent and I are in school.  We’re walking through the crowded hallway and music begins playing.  Everyone around us becomes blurry but we remain focused.  We aren’t even walking that fast.  A few people mouth “hey” to me, however, I can’t hear them because the background music is drowning out their voices.  Somehow, when I say “What do you have next?” to the delinquent, it is louder than every other voice in the hallway, the loud speaker, and the background music combined.  “Burning stuff,” he says as he walks into Asshole Inafootballjacket.

  
  

   

  
  

  “Watch it, Asshole,” says the delinquent.

  
  

   

  
  

  “Stop calling me that!” he whines.

  
  

   

  
  

  “But it’s your first name!”

  
  

   

  
  

  “What’s your problem?”

  
  

   

  
  

  “You are!”

  
  

   

  
  

  Then, they start attacking each other with punches and other cliché comebacks such as ‘your mom.’  I don’t do anything except stare and say “stop it” repeatedly until one of them blacks out.  After that, I head off to Biology where I become lab partners with a drug addict who stalks people and claims to have imaginary friends. “Shut up, Lucifer!” he says to no one in particular.  However, I think nothing of it and we both leave the class as best friends. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Suddenly, the bell rings and a stampede of students flood the hallways and out onto the front of the school.  My boyfriend pulls up in his truck and tells me to hop in.  However, when he sees me talking to my Biology partner, his eyes squint with hatred.  “Don’t even bother asking for a ride,” he shouts.  Then I break out in tears and dramatically bang on the car windows. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “Boyfriend!” I cry, “Don’t leave me!”

  
  

   

  
  

  “I just saw you talking to that dick-wad.  I can’t just sit around and watch you two at it, Topanga. “

  
  

   

  
  

  “Topanga?!”

  
  

   

  
  

  “Shit. I meant Daryl.  Topanga was just the freshman that was doing me sexual favors last Tuesday.”

  
  

   

  
  

  “I knew it!  We’re over, Boyfriend!”

  
  

   

  
  

  Then, I angrily run into the middle of the parking lot and get hit by a bus.  Actually, I don’t.  But some girl who looks exactly like me with the same outfit on does.  After that, Commercial comes back on with an advertisement for band-aides.

  
  

   

  
  

  When I arrive home, I am greeted by the delinquent, mom, and Peter. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “What the hell happened to you?” they ask, examining the band aide on my left pinky. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “I got hit by a bus and Boyfriend and I are through.”

  
  

   

  
  

  “Aw well that’s too bad, honey,” mom says as she prepares dinner and catches the dog on fire, “I didn’t have a great day, either.  I found out the baby I’m pregnant with is a mutant.  Inevitably, this show will turn into a cheap, suburban rendition of Star Trek.”

  
  

   

  
  

  “I knew things wouldn’t stay perfect around here for long,” says the brooding delinquent as he touches his healthy right arm, which was perpetually bleeding only three minutes before. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “Bark,” says the dog as he is reborn from his ashes.

  
  

   

  
  

  Then, a large mass of words take over the world.  Empty blackness with white words, rolling over everything, crushing the universe with its vastness.  Music surrounds our slaughtered remains, pounding us even further into blankness, into emptiness, into the end, into forever.

  
  

   

  
  

  At least until next week.

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  Right now you might be in a state of total shock.  What? Why?  How? You may even be slapping yourself on the head.  I mean, how could you be so oblivious?  Our lives are practically mirrored by soap operas.  IPod Nano.  Shut up, commercial.  See?  Every aspect of the real world is depicted on these television dramas.  And although I would like to chat with every one of you, I’m afraid the delinquent’s brother just came back from the dead.  If you happen to see a pitchfork lying around, let me know.  Thanks.

  
  

   

  
  

  -Directed by ImaJew Goldenbergschwartzstein-

  • 6:02 pm
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