Yeah, I blew the Smog Monster one time, so what?
It’s admission time. And no, that doesn’t mean I’m going to fess up anything about my involvement in the Holy Cross Girl’s Lacrosse Team sex scandal. It’s never been proven that I was anywhere near Worcester the night of the alleged incident or that I do indeed own a Roman Gladiator costume, either. So keep your paternity tests to yourselves and let’s move on.
No, I’m talking about admitting something even more embarrassing than impregnated Catholic co-eds.
I’m talking about Celebrity Rehab.
And my addiction to it.
Let’s be honest. It probably has something to do with enjoying the sight of people more fucked up than I am, that’s true. It’s not like I’m getting anything terribly emotional or intellectual out of watching leathery old b-level celebrities throw up and blow snots on each other. No, the enjoyment that I feel watching the show is a bit more visceral. And let’s be honest, it is enjoyment, through and through, at seeing the miserable, venal, gutter level abyss that these delusional, self-important Celebri-douches have brought themselves to through substance abuse.
So is it wrong to gain enjoyment out of someone else’s pain?
Not in this case, friends. These are not the down and out underpriviledged of the world. These are pampered, wealthy fame hogs who have used whatever small level of public notoriety they’ve gained, and the money that comes along with it, to fund spectacularly indulgent chemical dependencies. They have, as you might say, made their own beds and it turns out those beds are in the Pasadena Recovery Center.
Good luck to this Doctor Drew guy, by the way. A seemingly decent, intelligent, good hearted guy with, I think, a genuine desire to help folks who’s created for himself the Monster Island of rehab facilities. Makes the guy on Animal Planet who takes care of those hyper-violent, brain damaged chimpanzees seem like he’s filming Romper Room.
And trust me, this season is the Atomic Bomb of Fucked-uppedness when you look at the cast of heavy lidded Hollywood back alley types they’ve assembled.
The Cast:
Add in a couple of random, out of control former reality show twat bags and you’ve got your cast. I guess that ultra-nasty, whiny little twit-princess Keri-Ann Douche-Sipper, recently rejected from from VH1′s sex addiction show will be on hand at some point to take her top off and douse another couple or six people with water before she gets kicked to the curb again.
I can’t fucking wait I tell you.
I know, I know. It’s low brow, pandering titilation that appeals to the worst voyeuristic nature within us. Very true. But I swear to you this is not the proverbial car crash that you can’t look away from. This isn’t in the class of “so bad it’s good”.
No, this is High Art people and not in the sense that you have to be high to appreciate it. This is the human condition laid bare in all it’s glorious ugliness and depravity. It’s what our celebrity worshipping culture has led us to, the natural end results of our cravings for fame and fortune.
It’s who we are and what we deserve. Every Thursday night at 10. Tune in, won’t you, and check back here on Friday’s for some delicious post-show rehashing and fun.
You know you want to.
