At first, you assure yourself that no matter how pathetic you are, you would never stoop so low as to watch “Rock of Love,” because (a) You don’t watch Reality Shows, (b) You’ve always hated Bret Michaels, and (c) There are some things you Just Don’t Do.
Later, your husband develops a perverse fascination with “Rock of Love 3” and you find yourself transfixed by the horror that is Bret Michaels’ face. Still later, you are enslaved by the unspeakably tawdry proceedings, and like a Roman at a vomitorium you lose all sense of shame.
As the series moves towards its conclusion, you are gratified that all the blonds have been kicked off the bus. It’s empowering for brunettes, if being a dumb whore willing to kiss the monstrous lips of Bret Michaels can be considered a good thing. Now there are two dumb whores left, the Girl Next Door and the Penthouse Pet.
Your husband has begun to turn to you and say: “I’m sorry, your tour ends here.” When you scream in anguish, he comes back with “Will you stay on the bus and rock my world?”
It’s beyond horrible. Everything about it is sickening and stupid. But you must know how things turn out! Will it be Mindy, a moron from Kentucky who finally gets her moustache waxed in the final episode? Or will it be Taya, a steely pro with enormous tits and a husky smoker’s voice?
My husband thought it would be Mindy, proving that deep down he’s an Incurable Romantic.
I figured it would be Taya, based on the old maxim that ‘A Penthouse Pet Outranks the Girl Next Door.’ Thank god I was right and thank god it’s over.