The Passion of the Carters

"Be careful what you pretend to be because you are what you pretend to be."

-Kurt Vonnegut

The other day, I watched the horrid reality tv show House of Carters. I'm known for my addiction to garbage T.V.: There's E! True Hollywood Story that I can never seem to turn off (even if the subject is Anna Nicole), or there's Flavor of Love, a show that presents to us such strange individuals that it's almost like a weird dream/nightmare. Occasionally, I'll even catch an episode of The Girls Next Door to remind myself that no, Hef is not living every guy's dream (in fact, a houseful of those ditzes looks more like a living hell); and sometimes, not always, but sometimes, I'll catch myself watching, eh, I hate to say it...Passions.

But, that dump of a show House of Carters came on the other day, and I could watch no more than ten minutes. First of all, reality shows, whether they're scripted or not, shouldn't sound so scripted. Secondly, I prefer fictional television about whiny folks (Seinfeld, Grey's Anatomy, Ally McBeal, etc.) rather than supposed real people are this incredibly blah. They outdo even Meredith Grey. Does the Carter family really have it all that bad? If this is supposed to be reality, then this world needs nothing less than a nuclear holocaust.

Though I admit to watching this junk, I won't say that reality T.V. is a good use of my time. Like coffee, cigarettes, or booze, this is an addiction. I'm a junkie. If I sit down to watch the telly and come across an America's Next Top Model marathon, don't expect to hear from me until Tyra chooses a winner. I tend to put Flava Flav, the Hef's Playmate's, and Anna Nicole's tortuous life story over homework, friends, and family, who have, surprisingly enough, not yet staged an intervention. My name is Simon, and I'm a reality T.V.-holic.