My big fat obnoxious reality TV show
It's finally happened: I've come up against my reality TV limit. Though I respect and gravely admire the idea of My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss, I can't get past the fact that the "Ivy Leaguers" they've rounded up for the fiasco are beer distributors and copier salespeople; though the musical extravaganza on this week's The Biggest Loser was strangely compelling in the way that a traffic accident is strangely compelling, I felt my brain cells dying as I watched it. I think this is it. The beginning of the end of reality TV. What I'm feeling, the rest of the country has got to be feeling too. I'm not alone in this, am I?
Oh, sure. You still have your America's Next Top Models and your The Amazing Races, but they're precious and rare. I think it's enough to drive me to finish the David Foster Wallace short story collection that I'm only somewhat enjoying, if only so that I can get to the new William Trevor collection that I prevented myself from buying the other day because I have too many books in my queue as it is.
I think I'm reality TVed out. It's a day of mourning.