>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama
By staff writer Simonne Cullen
September 11, 2005
Well once again college has started. Frisbees are being tossed on main hall, syllabuses are being passed out, freshmen are rushing into Greek Life and casual sex—although I am convinced that one has absolutely nothing to do with the other, just as I am positively sure the reason why most state schools give out the morning after pill free is because the demand for them is so low. But between class, barhopping, tailgating, and Frisbee-throwing, we’re doing essentially the same thing we did all summer—and that, my friends, is watching TV. The great and glorious box we’ve organized our room around so everyone can see—and believe me everyone has to have a view—out of sheer laziness. I left the TV in my room last year and spent a majority of the first two months sleeping on the couch in the living room when my roommate’s “movie dates” turned into all night events that carried well into the morning. Shortly before Thanksgiving the TV was permanently relocated to the living room. The “movie dates,” however, still stayed in the bedroom. And my ass permanently relocated to the couch.
I’ve yet to see colleges splurge for premium channels, so the boxed DVD sets of The Soprano’s and Sex and the City are the holy grails of television. Both equally entertaining and jam-packed full of nudity, if you add Family Guy to the rotation then you’ve actually got something to do Sunday through Thursday night to distract you from your much more interesting reading, where the only nudity is comparable to that of National Geographic. And personally I’d rather see Peter Griffin’s tushy over a South American native’s any day.
“Would you really cut off a limb to get a remodeled house on Extreme Makeover? Why not, the people at ABC will just build ramps and an elevator for you anyway.”
I think that Seth MacFarlene should pay tribute to collegiate Americans. We, along with other twenty-something degenerates still going through college life withdrawal are what caused the DVD sales to sky rocket all the way up the president of Fox’s butt and force him to cough up another season. Wouldn’t it be nice to see homage paid to college students? Maybe Brian can go to college, or Stewie can discover alcohol, or Chris can get caught pirating MP3’s—you know, anything other than Meg going Greek and losing her virginity. Family Guy is outrageous, but at least it has realistic standards.
Then, speaking of unrealistic standards, there's Sex and the City. Married women love Sex and the City, single women live Sex and the City, gay men quote Sex and the City and straight men study Sex and the City to see what crazy new sex position Samantha has concocted and then attempt it with their girlfriend, usually resulting in a visit to the emergency room. As far as I am concerned, Samantha should be doing Valtrex commercials and not “Got Milk?” ads. We’ve watched her sleep with half of New York; it’s pretty clear that she has substantially strong bones—as do all of her partners—so while it’s evident that New Yorkers are big milk consumers, the rest of America is really curious to know whether Yankee fans are really able to go mountain biking and live their life to the fullest without their inflamed genitals irritating the hell out of them.
Then there’s Carrie. Why any single woman would want to be Carrie, or even idolize her, is beyond me. Let’s deconstruct Carrie for a moment. First of all she lives in an incredible apartment in Manhattan and has hundreds of pairs of fantastic shoes for someone who resides on a mere columnist salary. Believe me I know about writer's wages, Court hasn’t paid Justin or I in anything but sexual favors since Christmas of 2003…and between you and me Justin’s been the only one profiting from it until Ali came along. We like to keep it in the family here at PIC. Anyway, if the world of television were realistic, Carrie would have claimed bankruptcy three times in the first season alone, Miranda would have come out of the closet (her haircut alone caused suspicion for so long), and Big would have been killed by the hit man Natasha hired to kill him for cheating in the third season, causing a cameo appearance by Tony from the Sopranos, and then Samantha would fuck him.
But we’re not watching television for its realism. We’re watching it because it fills a part of our life that is void and incomplete. Why do you think the OC is so damn popular? None of us looked that good in high school, certainly none of us had that much money at our disposal, and if my mom ever slutted it up like Marissa’s mom, well, I’d be in serious therapy, not running off with my misunderstood boyfriend and two comical reliefy friends to my dad’s super stunning houseboat to sail down to Mexico. Yeah, we’re all willing to buy into the idea of how great high school would have been with alcoholic, money hungry, cheating parents, who throw money at their kids to get them out of the house, but the series premiere reached an all-time low when it attempted to dumb down the legal system for it’s viewers. Anyone pre-law or who's been arrested knows that Marissa would have never gone to prison or been convicted of murder. I thought for sure Julie was going to bang the kid in the hospital bed instead of bribing him. And he’d be like, “Sweet, give me a second to take my catheter out, and then we can try this new move I saw on TV. There’s been a Sex and the City marathon on TBS and I’ve been taking some mental notes.”
Prison Break is going to be another hit this season, maybe not so high amongst the college crowd who will watch Monday night football at dollar pint night, but it’s by far more intriguing than The Biggest Loser. It’s great that all these people are losing weight, but I’m not going to waste an hour of my life watching fat people race each other and drip sweat wildly from their man titties. Since last week I’ve been watching Prison Break with a group of girls, and well, I don’t want to stereotype, but you can always tell which girl could be labeled, “Most Likely To Visit Her Man During Conjugal Visits,” because she’s the one saying, “Wow, I didn’t realize there were so many attractive guys in prison.” You know who you are. Admittedly, the lead actor is smoking hot with this virtuous crusade he’s leading, but the Cosmonaut guy from Armageddon isn’t rated very high on my fantasy “to do” list.
Never did I think these words would ever be written, but realistic television needs to end. And the first show on a very long list of reality shows is Fear Factor. Watching amateurs jump from a helicopter to a speeding boat could be cool…if they weren’t using bungee cords and if someone occasionally got hurt. But then I could watch Keifer Sutherland do that on 24 and have a better plot attached to it. He’s already getting more than fifty grand an episode, so slap on a “save the country from the terrorists” scheme and you’ve something ten times better than watching hot chicks in bikinis show off their gag reflexes as they attempt to choke down a cockroach/maggot milkshake.
And for the record no one is watching Big Brother. Period.
Then there’s the Extreme Makeover Home Edition, which overwhelms it’s viewers with tear jerking stories about a family who’s been down on their luck, and is going to receive a brand new home with plasma screen TV’s in every room, including the dog house, which could also double as a hotel. My mom really wants to get on that show, but in order to do that, one of my parents is going to have to go blind or lose a leg. And would you really cut off a limb to get a remodeled house worth at least a million dollars and stocked with top quality accessories? Why not, the people at ABC will just build ramps and an elevator for you anyway.
Here’s a true story better than any sitcom writer could ever come up with. Three years ago I was partying in New Orleans during summer vacation, and of course we hit up the strip club and took the complimentary photo with one of the male strippers there. Well as fate would have it, two days ago I saw the same stripper filling out an application at Starbucks and overheard him talking about how lucrative his past job experience was and how he was looking to begin a new life up here after the hurricane. Then he gave me a small knowing wave when he saw me standing there frozen with my jaw dropped wide open. So while our lives may not be as interesting as television, if they were, I guarantee you Stripper Boy would have been Julie Cooper’s new pool boy, and Samantha would have laid him as soon as he hit Northern soil.