…and on the Seventh Day, his head exploded all over the TV.
Reality TV is my Kryptonite.
There. I said it.
The Gods of Reality TV, with an assist from their Apprentice Andy Cohen, have taken Guilty Pleasures and given them a shot of steroids. Jersey Steroids.
And I’m helpless against their powers.
Mob Wives, Jerseylicous and The Real Housewives of New Jersey all on the same night? Even Kal-El would buckle under that orange glow.
Last month Andy and his minions put our Reality Drug Interactions to the test, packing up Teresa and all her bankrupted belongings into the Bravo Uhaul and sending them to Sunday nights. The Jersey Trifecta has succeeded in doing exactly what they hoped it would do: Bringing all humanity to a three hour long screeching hault.
Yes, I know that if I could look away from the TV long enough to tap the Google Maps App, Mob Wives is not officially a Jersey show. But if you can get there with a Metro Card and still have the time and energy to bitch slap someone…well, you know.
The Governor of New Jersey may not be front and center in his media room on Sunday nights, but the rest of the world seems to have found their spot on the pleather recliner. After carefully laying out which show is on which channel, my spreadsheet is complete and I settle in for some overload. By the time I make it through waiting for the goombahs to come home from the slammer, to learning how a smokey eye can cover up a black eye, and then finishing up with a good table flip and some pasta fagioli…let’s just say life is good.
For all the quality time in front of the TV, I still haven’t quite mastered the Jersey Triple Play yet, tho…ie “Do NOT hurt my Family! Do not HURT my Family! Do not hurt my FAMILY!” Reality TV smack downs seem to follow the same Rule of 3s that all good Interior Designers learn at Parsons.
As with any good train wreck, not even my building’s fire alarm can pull me away from the plasma screen. This week I actually felt a touch of sadness that Mob Wives was having their season finale. After the initial shame, it was like one of my children was leaving for summer camp. The house was going to be a little quieter for the rest of the season, but at least I won’t need as many cleansing baths. Luckily I have hours of Jersey safely tucked away in my DVR. Just don’t tell anyone.
What other night gives you the chance to pull someone’s weave out in Staten Island, then head to the Gatsby Salon to get it put back in, only to have it yanked back out again one hour later by some snotty nosed Housewife’s mean girl offspring?
It’s the Jersey Circle of Life.