My Big Fat Big Brother Addiction

It's that time of the year again -- and once again, I'm hooked. I know, I know; "Big Brother" is the dumbest show in America and people who watch Reality TV are no better than the saps who participate in it -- it reduces us all to the level of exhibitionists and voyeurs, it pushes the land of the free that much closer to the mouth of hell. I agree completely -- but you're talking to the wrong person. This is, I shamefully admit, my favorite show, and the one program in the world I would not dream of missing. I can channel-surf and bypass my favorite writer on "Charlie Rose." I can hear someone I know personally on the radio and say "Maybe another time" as I click off. I can hear my very name whispered in passing by a stranger and maybe -- just maybe -- not care. But when "Big Brother" comes on, I'm there, usually with a pizza.

How bad is this addiction? Well, this is the fourth season and I didn't miss a single show of the previous three. I remember most of the names of everyone who participated -- total non-entities and thoroughly undeserving wannabe celebrities whose unfunny jokes, personal quirks, nasty habits, unseemly revelations and painfully watchable meltdowns are permanently inscribed in my memory. I remember Karen (Season One) going apeshit over how much she hates her husband. I remember Nicole (Season Two) feeling up Will in the hot tub with her feet. I remember Chiara kissing Lisa (Season Three). I hope to remember this year's Michelle doing something that will haunt her the rest of her days.

There is nothing defensible about any of this, so I may as well stop apologizing -- stop whining and just, you know, work through my addiction, get to the root of the problem, try to figure not only why total idiots fascinate me, but why -- why, Good Lord, why -- I actually kind of dream of joining this cruel form of entertainment, forming alliances, revealing things that will come back to hurt me, and wrecking my life in, oh, so many, many ways. The money, I am sad to report, wouldn't be the spur. I think there's just a complete total fucking self-destructive moron deep inside my soul that is fighting to come out, that needs, nay, even deserves to have his day in court.

Until that day, I will trust these twelve others -- well, eleven now, as Scott (Season Four) abruptly split last night -- to do the work for me. I'm putting three hours a week in your hands, guys. Don't let me down. Go out there and hurt each other.