You have a show about catty rich women (Real Housewives), shows about matchmaking (The Bachelor) and even a show about muscle-heads trying to beat the muscles out of other muscle-heads (The Ultimate Fighter). There are shows about bigamy (Sister Wives), shows about really large families (19 Kids and Counting), large families with deranged moms (Kate Plus 8) and shows about people who love to stockpile stuff (Hoarders).
Don’t get me wrong. There are some reality shows that I enjoy but for the most part they are a drain on air time and reveal all too well how crazy our society has become. I have a few personal favorites. Like the cast of foul-mouthed drivers (Ice Road Truckers) and equally foul-mouthed fishing crews (Deadliest Catch); but I draw the line when it comes to rich brats (Kardashians), fake cops (Dog the Bounty Hunter) and fake Italians (Jersey Shore).
Click through your local television guide and you’ll find enough reality TV offerings for Cody Brown and all of his wives to watch simultaneously from the comfort of their large polygomous love seat. Reality TV is ruining my perception of actual life. After watching a single episode of Jersey Shore I immediately understood why some people should not be allowed to pro-create. I also realized that my life really doesn’t suck that bad.
I wouldn’t, however, rule out the possibility of being the star in my own reality TV show. I mean, if you can have a show for little people (midget show), little beauty queens and little wrestlers, than you can definitely have a show about ‘lil ‘ol me, right?
I can see it now – the audience will follow me each day as I sit at my computer writing technical documents and attending meetings to discuss defects in a clients software and how we plan on resolving the issue. They’ll be riveted to the screen as I listen in on a conference call with quality control testers in India and they’ll salivate as I warm up my microwaveable meal and eat it in a nearly deserted break room next to the vending machines.
The show will then follow me on my commute down the I-15 Corridor and laugh as I weave in and out of traffic, yelling profanities at people who are wondering who this evil pseudo-taxi driver is with the camera crew in his backseat. As I park in my driveway I’m still yelling expletives but this time its at my 78-year-old retired neighbor and the dozens of kids who congregate at my home and scatter like stray cats when I appear in the doorway.
I will then cower into a corner in the fetal position as my wife arrives from work. She kicks me down the hall into a closet where the kids feed me dog food and fill my water bowl with water from the toilet and you’ll feel sorry for me as the lights dim and the credits roll.
And once the cameras are gone for the evening my reality really begins. I’ll have a nice home cooked meal with my loving wife discussing the events of the day with her as we listen to our sons talk about school and their friends. We’ll pray and thank God for the comfort of our home, our jobs and our health. And most of all, we will be grateful for a life away from the prying, scrutinizing, unreal life made public by the lens of reality TV.