What does it say about me, as a person, that I was disappointed to the extreme of grabbing a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie (the only kind that truly makes life’s injustices seem insignificant) to temper my dejection – and all because Rock of Love Bus wasn’t on last night at its regularly scheduled time?
I mean, the draw is certainly not Bret Michaels – a fossilized rocker with bleach-bad hair extensions, a strangely permanently puckered pucker, and skanky taste in women. Although, his poking fun at his own expense narratives do redeem him a bit.
It’s also not his music, because despite the worthy ballad Every Rose Has Its Thorn that was great to grab a** and suck face to 20 years ago in the corner of a high school gym dance, I’m not feeling it. I’ll still take Def Leppard creaking around the stage over Poison any day.
I think it must be the are-these-women-for-real gals who, for a third season now, keep cat fighting their way to be Bret’s one true love (in the rocker sense of the word, which obviously means until next season’s episode of Rock of Love).
I love these women, none of which has a real set of breasts (I’m not allowed to say b**bs on this site) among them. Or, as far as I can tell, a molecule of self-respect. And “natural beauty” is as foreign a concept to them as intelligence under the pounds of make-up, bleached and dyed masses of weaved hair, and t*ts and a** hanging out so much that who bothers to look at their faces?
Why do I love this handful of loose-moraled women? They make the rest of us women look good. I look like a Noble Prize Laureate, Miss Manners prodigy, girl-next-door beauty and life lottery winner in comparison. For every drunken display of idiocy (or sober for that matter), ding-bat comment, and whines of wanting to be loved for who they are (despite altering themselves to a point that their own mothers probably don’t know who they are), any slip of judgment or poor choice I’ve ever made still keeps me in the running for the second coming of Mother Teresa compared to them.
What fascinates me the most though about the Rock of Love series (I’ve been a loyal fan despite the ickiness by association and shame that washes over me as I watch), is look what these women are competing for! A chance to be the love, and I use the term in as loose as sense as these women, of an aging, past his prime, Botox and Restilin infused rocker who still doesn’t have the good sense to let the 80’s hair thing go. If this is the only way these women could find love, then someone needs to slap their mommas.
Call Rock of Love Bus what you want, a train wreck of reality TV too voyeuristically tantalizing to turn away from, a rubber-necking crash of sin and sex and rock n roll, or in my case, an hour of television my husband is not allowed to interrupt with nudges for nookie.
I think Rock of Love Bus is wonderfully, horribly, good bad TV. However, if my daughter ever looks, dresses, acts or aspires to be the sex toy groupie of a rocker, someone slap me and lock my daughter in a room with Condoleezza Rice.
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