IDIOT BOX SAVANT Subhuman squeal-beast, seated, right.

Thursday, April 10, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Idiot Box Savant: Squealing harlots!

By Andrew Kiraly

Relationships, relationships, relationships. Everyone's obsessed with relationships, "everyone" being Fox. Dude! Did you see the ad for its upcoming show, "Mr. Personality"? A lady works her way through 20 suitors to find Mr. God I Hope He Doesn't Eat Children. The catch is she never sees his face; instead, the suitors have to wear these super-fruity Cirque du Soleil masks that, I guess, are supposed to somehow magically project their inner beauty to comfort ugly people around the world. Where does a lady take a date like that? "But honey, this is the third Victorian masquerade ball we've been to this week! Can't we just grab a bite at Pick Up Stix and hang out at Barnes & Noble?" Sounds craptastic. I can't wait!

But, wanting a dee-liteful shit-prog to pack into my brain-folds now as well as later, I watched "Married by America," (Mondays, 9 p.m., Fox), the show in which couples hope to be selected by you and me, the viewing audience scooping peanut butter out of a jar with a shard of baking chocolate, to win a televised wedding and a half-mil in cash and prizes. Now, I'd really like to make a sober-minded comment about how this show trivializes and even ridicules the sacred institution of marriage, but, really, how indignant can a man get when he's wearing a helmet made out of turkey pot pie? You'll understand when you see the infomercials. I'll say this: safety, flavor and nutrition!

Not that either of these two final couples deserve to win. Annoying! Gawd, in the hierarchy of TV personalities, the would-be brides are more like ambitious lungfish in Bebe half-shirts, while the dudes hail from Planet Double Plus Super Mook. Dear Jesus: For Easter, please give me a basketful of those tiny little copper-colored eggs along with the magical .22-caliber machine that hides the special eggs at a high velocity in the flesh of stupid people...

Yeah, I consider myself a veteran of the reality TV wars; I've weathered many an insufferable personality, but these people are the worst. One of the women up for the matrimony treatment is this bartender Billie Jean, who, during this one segment where they went out shopping for wedding dresses, was so overcome with the possible thrill of her possible walk down the aisle that she reverted to this totally bizarre, debased animal squealing that I have never heard on this earth: "I'm getting maaaaarrried! I'm getting maaaarrried!"

Whoa, where's the "deploy Crocodile Hunter" button on my remote? Worse, during the whole segment, there was this maudlin, plinky guitar music that plays when John Tesh makes love to your wife. It was enough to make me summon the world-eating demon-monster of the Payless Shoe ads to destroy Billie Jean with a deadly beam of stylish discount footwear.

Then I was roused from my fog of total hate when they announced the unthinkable: The two couples were going to soil my very kingdom with their foul presence. Yes, all four were getting treated to bachelor/bachelorette parties in Vegas.

First thought: Okay, "Married by America" has a chance to redeem itself by doing some time-lapse erosion of Western Civ via soft porn on network TV. In their hotel rooms, the guys got strippers and whip cream; the ladies got...strippers and whip cream, too! Shivering with delight, The Savant thought he might be able to forgo having to quibble with his usual fickle mistress, the Internet, in lieu of some spicy gal-gal action unadulterated by pop-up ads or long download times.

What a letdown! The two brides-to-be vamped around robotically with a female stripper/stoner mom, going to so far as to lick whip cream off her tummy. Then the top came off and...and...ground control reports we now have...digitally blurred nipples?! Bah! Scripted, sanitized naughtiness does not please The Savant. Payless Shoe monster, I command you to attack!