Reason 1,000,010 why I am ashamed to be me and feel a professional should be called in to evaluate my taste in television and intervene if necessary: I have become addicted to Blind Date.
I can’t explain it. I am aware that it is a horrible show. I used to hate it. I only know that lately I find myself eschewing The Simpsons for this poorly produced juvenile show.
Okay, so maybe it doesn’t sound a whole lot different than The Simpsons, now that I think about it…
But whereas The Simpsons is amusing on a “ha, that’s my family!” recognition-type level, Blind Date is beyond amusing on a “ha, the world is full of fools!” level. The wanna-be smarmy host„you know, I’ve just realized that I can’t remember his name. He just really doesn’t belong on any level, he’s kind of an odd choice for host. This kind of show needs someone who’s louder and snarkier to introduce the segments, not the smooth, bland stylings of our Nameless Host. Let’s call him NH, for short. NH’s lack of charisma as host does nothing but add to my “why do I love this” confusion. If they gave him more screen time, I might contemplate changing the channel. But I probably wouldn’t. I don’t watch it for him anyway, so I can deal with it, and wait for the stupid people to come out and play. And play they do. I can’t turn away. I believe this is referred to as the “train wreck” syndrome. Must. Survey. Wreckage.
A recent show was lovingly titled “Dates from Hell.” It should’ve been called “People are egocentric morons.” I’m wondering if people are forced to sign a disclaimer promising not to run away screaming at the beginning of the date. Because, I’m sorry, but if a man picks me up and right away lists drinking as one of his favorite things to do, and chicks who drink top his lists of “cool things,” the date’s pretty much over. Contract be damned, I’m going home. If this man then takes me horseback riding and agitates my horse when he knows I’m not a rider, his ass is grass. If I am stupid enough to continue to masochistically see where this goes and follow this man to not one, but two different drinking establishments, I deserve whatever I get. Whether this turns out to be my date getting extremely drunk and yelling “hey, you looking at me tightie?” at the cocktail waitress, or him telling me that he has no words in his vocabulary to describe me other than “average,” or him declaring that he would never take me out in public and that I am–and I quote, “as fun as a screen door on a submarine,” I would deserve it. I would so deserve it.
Fortunately, this is not me being tortured, and therefore it is entertainment at its highest.
I am sick. I need help. Lord, do I know it.
The second date, the devil, tired of his hick-trappings, reinvented himself as a “highly opinionated,” very picky woman. She, an ex-body builder, felt that her date was not keeping up with his physique. She humiliated him by talking down to him and making him feel small for not reading for fun. She compassionately referred to her date as a “lap dog.” He responded to all of this wonderful feedback by getting smashed. I love survival mechanisms, especially when they clash so spectacularly. Let me just say, bitter sarcasm + drunken bliss = hoo hoo hoo, ha ha ha. Fuck yeah. Free entertainment doesn’t get better than this.
Sometimes, the sap in me is willing to admit it backfires and makes me sad. Like in another episode, this self-described man who does dorky things but swears that this doesn’t make him a dork, desperately tried to amuse an ice princess from hell. Somehow unable to read her signs of “go away forever”„apparently extended periods of eye contact mean something else in his universe, he attempted to get her number in the car. She flat out said “I don’t want to give that to you.” Oh, I know he deserved it for asking for it on TV, and he tried to play it cool but ended up looking pathetically sad, but it gave me an uncontrollable urge to pat him on the head and tell him it would be okay, to reassure him that his friends would never watch the show anyway. But let me take this opportunity to make a plea: men, men, please–pay attention. If a woman does not talk to you or respond to anything you say and spends a good deal of time shooting you a well-practiced death glare over desert, please, for the love of god, especially if you are being videotaped, do NOT ask for her number. Or a kiss. Unless you would like to live the rest of your life in mocking-hell, don’t go for the goodnight kiss.
You would think this would be common sense. However, common sense is not exactly prevalent on this show. Another reason I love it so. I adore it so much that I want to work for them. They have these pop ups, see…and someone gets paid to write them. Someone gets to sit through all of the horrific, awkward, probably mostly boring-as-hell footage and pick the greatest moments. Then they get to make snarky comments„and not just to themselves. They get to put them to film. The dates are overlaid with extremely juvenile, caustic observations.
My favorite being a particularly odd date where the girl spent the entire time brushing the male off, berating him for being too macho and not respecting women’s intelligence and other random things. Basically, it seemed to be a mismatch from hell. In the cab ride home, just after she had made some bitter remark about how he blamed women for everything, a pop up counting down from five pops up, labeled “why men will never understand women in 5…4…3…2…1…” and she leaned in and kissed him.
I want that job.
People are strange. Let’s pretend I am forced to watch this because of the anthropologist in me…yes, let’s…So…it’s a study of American culture…yeah…