Unless you have a remarkably uptight moral compass, or one of those things I believe people refer to as ‘standards’ then watching a lady lift up her skirt and piss on a table isn’t going to be something you can switch off, mid-flow, as it were.
Reality shows are false advertising, for starters. Scripted by maniacs and populated by the type of moron who would do just about anything to get attention, Reality TV is, unsurprisingly, addictive viewing.
We live vicariously through our increasingly thin TV set
How terrible, they bombed that city I can’t pronounce again. Children are suffering! You spit through a half-eaten sandwich and some crisps. Why won’t anyone do anything? You announce to your family. Maybe because they’re too busy eating sandwiches and watching other parts of the world die.
Reality TV seems little more than a platform to turn poor, stupid people into rich, stupid people because if anything can liven up madness, throwing obscene amounts of money at it seems to do the trick. We fall for these abominations of culture, rooting for one or two specifically among a generous lump of arseholes because for a short time we can feel like a Roman Emperor. There’s nothing more that leaders like to do than sit in a comfortable chair and watch people be awful to each other.
Case In Point
Let’s take two random participants; we’ll call them… Jason and Melinda. They’re contestants on a Big Brother style horror-show. After a few too many alcoholic beverages they cuddle up somewhere in a secluded corner (secluded as in, there’s only one camera) and confess some weird sexual fetish they’ve always wanted to try out. Let’s say that Jason has always wanted to shit in someone’s mouth and Melinda is totally into Jason, so she will do literally whatever he says. Plus she’s pretty certain this will make Headline News outside of the house and power-up her attention-ometer to orgasmic levels of functioning.
And she’s right- the press run with it, the tension builds up, critics emerge from hibernation and maybe even the Pope chimes in. Psychologists are on Breakfast TV to tell you how, whilst ‘shitting in someone’s mouth’ is wholly unhygienic and might give you all manner of unpleasant diseases, it’s seen throughout the ‘fetish community’ as a wonderful bonding exercise, one of trust and love and we should all calm the fuck down and practice tolerance to the ‘mouth-shitting’ minority.
Social Media cannot refresh its pages rapidly enough as people slaughter each other getting to a device to share their HOT TAKE about this, faster than their judging little typing stumps can operate.
They couldn’t possibly show this on TV! Shout several people who desperately want it to be shown whilst maintaining a holier-than-thou social identity. Rumors start flying that tonight, of all nights, is the shit-show.
The executives are backed into a corner; if they don’t show it, then the anti-climax might push their viewers into the arms of another reality show. On channel 3 they’re having their first human sacrifice to stop a flood in Hull, and the World Cup has started.
They pull Jason aside and put their shit-eating grins on (the puns have found themselves here) and tell him that if he can, in fact, defecate in Melinda’s mouth then they will give him a disastrous amount of compensation, a full aftercare package, whatever that might entail (don’t think about it for too long) but that best of all, the chances of him ever being forgotten are practically zero. Yes, he will forever be famous and receive unlimited attention for little-to-no output for the rest of his life. You’ll be as powerful as Paris Hilton, they tell him. You’ll never have to work another day in your life.
Melinda is simply told how she’ll never have to suck another rich member for her big break ever again, because this. This is her big break.
As the nation tunes in, some giggling with anticipation, others putting on a concerned look, surrounded by their families, Jason climbs up onto a garden table. The drunken housemates cheer him on, blissfully unaware of what’s about to go down. Melinda is so wasted she can barely stand, but manages to prop herself up with the table edge.
Jason takes his pants down and gets into position. Housemates hysterical now. Take them off! They wail, falling over themselves. Melinda, intoxicated, smacks her face into his butt-cheeks as he braces and starts to strain. She knows the sooner she opens her mouth, the sooner the screaming will stop. The shit makes awkward contact but is pretty much bulls-eye. Jason checks the deed is done and winks at one of the cameras. He’s made it. Infamy.
Two of the housemates are already throwing up. One is applauding, but his expression is haunted. We go to commercial break.
Social Media swells. Postmodern art! Shout some. Postmodern filth! Shout others. Complaints to the media company roll in. Five people are fired. The talk shows are rife with so-called experts claiming they always knew it would come to this. This one episode. The one they call ‘Shitshow’ is taken apart, dissected and reattached, without a hint of irony that frankly, that’s what reality TV always has been.
Like I said, it’s addictive.