Ah reality TV. Today we salute you for providing us with such nutritional entertainment as American Idol, Trading Spouses, and The Simple Life. On a recent episode of the “The Simple Life,” Paris Hilton installed a power programmer, which makes me think a chimpanzee could do the same. Hmm…
I don’t think anyone would argue that traditional television has gone down the drain—actually it’s been brutally murdered in its sleep, thrown in the back of a dilapidated van, driven into the depths of the desert and buried under the starry night sky. And reality TV is to blame. The youth of today lacks the heaping spoonfuls of moral fiber that shows like Saved By the Bell and Family Matters used to dish out. And what are today’s audiences watching you might ask? Sugary, unwholesome garbage that’s what. Apparently, anyone who is, has been, or will ever be famous can have their own show. Heck, nowadays you can have your own series simply by associating with someone in the spotlight. Guilty as charged, I watched “I Love New York,” but did I like watching it? Maybe, but that’s not the point. Tiffany Pollard, AKA New York, participated in a trashy dating show with washed up rapper, Flavor Flave. And merely by being a contestant, a psychotic one at that, she spawned her own hit series. Everyone knows that watching these horrendous shows is like catching a glimpse of a train wreck; you don’t want to look, but you can’t stop yourself. Maybe they are more like crack.
I was flipping through my hundreds of channels and stumbled across a hot chick in a bikini. So I did what any other respectable twenty three year old male would do and kept watching. This turned into four hours of The Simple Lift marathon. What can I say? Stupidity amazes me, and Paris Hilton is chock full of it. In one episode, the girls were staying with a mechanic’s family out in the sticks of Nebraska. The girls were given one simple task; change a tire. Before you can say Dolce & Gabbana, the shop and girls are covered in oil, grease, make up, and rags. At this point, Paris felt it necessary to strip out of her grease-covered overalls; disgusting, I know. The mechanic wasn’t too thrilled about the mess, but was quickly distracted by the half-naked model standing in front of him. Since changing a tire was obviously too difficult, he had them install a performance programmer. “Oh boy, this should be good!” I thought to myself. I guess Paris can actually read because she looked at the directions and got the darn thing to work. Granted she only had to plug in a few wires, I was shocked.
So this got me thinking. Could a monkey install one of these programmers? I don’t know too much about them, but from my understanding, these little devices plug in under your dash and reprogram your car’s factory settings so you can get more power and better gas mileage. Sounds complicated, but I’m pretty sure you just plug in a few wires. So if anyone out there has a monkey and is willing to try an experiment let me know. If that gorilla in Congo can learn sign language, surely we can get a chimp to plug in a wire. And imagine if the tabloids heard about it? They would sink their gargantuan fangs into this story and eat it up—ruthless bunch if you ask me. I’ll even split the story rights with you. I can see it now, “Monkey Outsmarts Paris Hilton!”
