Guilty Pleasures

At Dartmouth, senior year, Annie and I lived without TV. Yes, we of Lamb-Cha suffered mightily: no Trading Spaces to brighten our days, no Jon Stewart to light up our nights. She and I (I think I will excuse Christine and Vy from this as I think they sort of just got suckered along against their will into our all night Wildboyz marathons) had gotten pretty addicted to television during our term in Dublin.

Annie grew to love that Jessica Simpson/Nick Lachey show (what was that called?) and we watched Wildboyz & Jackass with equal parts desire and shame. Partially it was due to the low quality of Irish tv; there was one show–I think it was Kristie’s Home Videos or something like that–which would, during late hours, intersperse cute videos of tots running into trees with clips of naked people walking around. They weren’t even pornographic naked people; they were just naked people baking cookies, naked people playing tennis (ew), naked people in sneakers climbing a Mexican pyramid. Suffice it to say that the best stuff on Irish tv came from the good ole U.S. of A.

Annie reflected on these developments with despair: “I never watch tv,” she said, guiltily, as she ogled Nick Lachey. I too felt a twinge of guilt; I had been through 2 3/4 years of a college education without a boob toob. and there I was drowning my sorrows not in a pint of genuine Irish Guinness but in the mesmerizing homoeroticism of mtv. I was lost.

But now, a year on out of college, a regular diet of television has freed me from the shackles of intellectual guilt. God, how did I live without it? And we don’t even have cable. In my defense, I only watch *good* tv. That is: Simpsons (pref. seasons 3-8), Family Guy, South Park, and America’s Next Top Model. I have always enjoyed cartoons, ever since I was a leetle girl.

The key is that I love a good belly laugh. And nothing provides it like a show about bitchy beautiful anorexics slapping each other around, all under the guruship of Tyra Banks–who, as you can see from the picture above, is really beyond my ability to describe. They bumble about, mumbling about FIERCENESS as hideous gay men insult them and poufferize their hair. Ah me.

Mr. Philosophe came over unannounced one night–on TOP MODEL NIGHT–and was greeted by the sight of me disheveled, in my “top model clothes” (sweats), and with a crazed gleam in my eye. Yes, of course he sat through it with me–he rilly rilly likes me after all! After he left, daddy was like, man, he must RILLY like you.

I must close by saying that every single Asian model they choose for this show is actually pretty plain. Or just…dunno…überAsian. Naturally they never win.

I thank Miss Sylvia for linking to fourfour, which provided the above photo…what a fabulous site. Does anyone else watch this show? Does anyone else share my secret shame/unholy passion?