I hate TV. My dad used to say, “TV’ll turn your brain to mush.” And I agree. How does it help society in any way? You can’t argue that it tells the news because I don’t even think that happens anymore. What it does is sidetrack you the minute you walk in the door. You think you’re about to sit down to watch only the SNL Weekend Update, and five hours later you’re ordering pizza and finishing up a Matlock marathon.
Aware of all this, I gave my TV to Ignacio, the cable guy. He was a tiny hunched man when he came in, but as soon as I told him he could have my chunk of a TV, he hoisted it over his shoulder like GI Joe and scurried away before I could change my mind. No TV. Gone. Over it. HATE IT.
However, there are a few times when I just don’t want to think. And during those times, I can’t control my fingers. They’ll type in the name of some illegal website, and before I know it my unsuspecting eyes are witnessing the horrors of Reality TV. No! It’s not my fault. I swear I didn’t mean to start watching The Real Housewives of Orange County.
There. I fucking said it. I’ve been watching that horrifying show about 40-yr-olds who fight like high schoolers and spend more money on clothes in a week than I spend on my rent.
I know I shouldn’t watch it. It’s horrible. The worst part is that I’m getting it free from some hack website, and I’m positive the fuzz is about to break down my door and arrest me for illegal implant watching. That’s what it is. A whole show full of implants and vapidity. I hate myself. I try to be intellectual and not have a TV and talk about shnazzy books and quote Kafka every chance I get. And then I go and get sucked into this of all shows.
The reason I’m even bringing it up is because I can’t let go of something I heard on this show. Something puzzling. Something that made me question my entire upbringing.
An Orange County couple was driving to Palm Desert for a romantic getaway. A summary of their conversation:
Man: We’re going to get some sun all weekend.
Woman: Oh, honey. I only brought one bathing suit.
Man (panicking): What do you mean? I want to lay out Saturday and Sunday.
Woman: I thought we’d be playing poker one day.
Man: Well, what are we gonna do?
Woman: I don’t know, honey. I’m sorry.
Man: Well… I’ll buy you a bikini.
Woman (squealing): Yaay!!!!!!!
They both breathe out a sigh of relief.
Uh…
What? I’m seriously questioning my beliefs in swimwear, and I need some answers. Have I been living a lie all these years? I thought bathing suits were self-cleaning? You wear them into water, water that is covered in a chemical akin to bleach. Then you rinse that chemical off in the shower and voila- fresh bathing suit ready to wear the next day. Right? Have I been grossing out all my friends and neighbors all these years wearing the same bathing suit twice in a row? Or is it just that women from Orange County have so much money that they’ve grown accustomed to never wearing anything twice? Or is it that they have radioactive vaginal secretions that immediately render all bikinis and underwear useless? I don’t know.
Please tell me I’m not living a lie.
Ignacio, please bring back my TV so I can see the destruction of these radioactive vaginal secretions before the police throw me in the slammer.
Or don’t bring back my TV. Just bring back my brain. It’s mush. My brain is a ball of mush. Help me! Send bathing suits!
This chick is fifty-one. She got a face lift that makes her look like she’s chewing marbles. I hate that I know that.