Well, it certainly was a good weekend for reality TV-viewing. I didn't even get around to watching all those archived episodes of Hey Paula and The Singing Bee on my TiVo, what with a marathon of Bands Reunited running on VH1 Classic (I always did wonder whatever happened to Information Society--and now I know!), and Fuse's Bodog Battle Of The Bands featuring the bizarre Simon Cowell-like rantings and cringe-inducingly awkward dancing of celebrity judge John Lydon. (Yes, you read that right. That was not a typo. THAT John Lydon. The one from the Sex Pistols.)
Anyhoo, those shows, awesome and Emmy-worthy as they were, were still just the warmup acts leading up to Sunday evening's main event: Bret Michaels' Rock Of Love.
O, praise ye TV gods, for now VH1, the network that brought us Best Week Ever, has unveiled the Best Show Ever. Seriously, this program has all the necessary ingredients for fine, fascinating, craptacular entertainment. Twenty-five skantastic, Lycra-sheathed, Elimidate-esque rock ho's? Check. Fifty or so silicone boobies, give or take a pair? Check. A seemingly bottomless supply of booze, with no one around to stop the "ladies" from pouring gallons of said booze straight down their deep throats--but plenty of cameramen around to film what transpires after they do? Check.
Now add the admirably well-preserved lead singer of Poison in all his bandanna-bound, motorcycle-straddling glory--somewhat deludedly hoping to find true love (or, perhaps more realistically, truly humongous Nielsen ratings) with one of these silicone-and-alcohol-engorged skanks. Then put 'em all in a big party crash pad that looks like the set from Poison's "I Want Action" video. The result? Nothin' but a good time, of course!
Rock Of Love finally made its much-anticipated (anticipated by me, at least) premiere on VH1 last night, thankfully filling the aching, gaping void left, um, about a week ago, when Flavor Of Love Girls: Charm School wrapped up its season. And lemme tell ya, some of the prospective Bret Michaels trophy girlfriends on this show were freaky-deaky enough to make even Flav girls Toastee and Pumkin look like Amish nuns. (Yes, I know there's no such thing as Amish nuns, but I'm trying to make a point here, OK?) It's too bad that Bret didn't give the gals Smurf/Seven Dwarves-like nicknames the way Flavor Flav did with the bachelorettes on his show, because Bret certainly could've come up with a few appropriate monikers: Skanky, Bustee, Horny, Crackee, Crystal-Methy, etc.
No, despite Bret's multiple, perhaps too enthusiastic assertions to the contrary throughout the 90-minute episode, these were NOT the "25 most beautiful women in the world." They probably weren't even the 25 most beautiful women on the set; surely there was a comely female PA or caterer or intern lurking around somewhere who was finer-looking than some of these torn-up chicks. Oh, there were a few I thought had potential, like Brandi M. (the badass Scorpio "ruled by her genitals" with dreams of making Bret her "bitch"), Sam (the foxy tattooed Tom Waits fan), Jes (the one with what seemed to be an actual brain beneath her fuchsia Nikki McKibbin hair), and Rodeo (not the freshest face in the bunch, but it was obvious that her heart is as big and wide as a rock 'n' roll arena). But five of these women were in fact so fugly, Bret's roadie/assistant Big John stopped them right at the velvet rope, denying them an all-access pass to Bret's Hollywood Hills party mansion before the show had even gone into its first commercial break. "Your tour ends here," he barked, sending the hatchet-faced rejects back to the bus with their still-packed luggage in tow and their tails between their fishnet-encased legs. Ouch.
However, one of these exiles (beak-nosed, Botox-resistant Chicago floozy Tiffany, the most skanky/bustee/horny/crackee/crystal-methy gal in the bunch) managed to sweet-talk her way out of this humiliating early elimination, telling Big John she'd do "anything" to get into Bret's house (and, presumably, Bret's pants). Big John certainly could've taken advantage of her desperation, as many backstage security guards did with wanton 'n' willing groupies at Poison concerts back in the day. Suffice it to say that Tiffany seemed more than ready to, er, open up and say aah. But thankfully Big John was classy enough to remember that this show runs on basic cable, not on Skinemax, and therefore he refrained from asking Tiffany for any, er, "favors."
Tiffany's controversial reinstatement was unfortunate for Bret, as this chick ain't exactly marriage material, despite her later shocking revelation that she has a daughter (no doubt resulting in numerous calls to Child Welfare Services from concerned viewers). But this fallen angel's return to the competition was most fortunate for fans of trainwreck TV like myself, because, just as every rose has its thorn (or every thorn has its rose, as contestant Raven would say), every reality show must have its psychopathic villain. And Tiffany fit into that role quite wonderfully! Seriously, the beeyotch had barely been back in the house 10 minutes before she got so drunk that her slurry scenes had to be subtitled for the remainder of the episode; she somewhat justified this CC DeVille-like bender by saying/slurring, "Alcohol kills germs." (In that case, somebody please fetch an entire bottle of JD, pronto, and swab down that stripper pole Tiffany was grinding on!) And soon Tiff was no longer drunkenly dry-humping stripper poles, either; oh no, instead she was grinding with mortar-and-pestle force on Bret's hapless, tender lap--"beating his penis to a pulp," to borrow Bret's own tasteful words. Yikes. Talk about pulp friction.
But, as Bret reasoned later in his post-elimination-ceremony interview, Tiffany was "entertaining." And therefore, even though Bret had already handed out all his backstage passes (on this show, selected bachelorettes get passes, not roses--soooo awesome), the ratings magnet known as Tiffany was allowed to stay as some sort of odd-woman-out, wild-card contestant. She'd have to sleep in the bathtub due to the lack of available beds, but she didn't seem to mind--my guess is she's spent many a night sleeping in bathtubs or other uncomfortable, embarrassing places, so I'm hardly surprised. Anyhoo, she probably won't be sleeping in that bathtub for long; since she doesn't rear her skunk-striped head in many of the preview clips on VSpot, that indicates she'll get cut early in the season. It's likely only a matter of time Big John gets his way and she's back on the bus for good, and then I'll just have to wait for the inevitable reunion episode to be entertained by more of her penis-pounding, shot-swilling antics.
You know, I really do hope Bret finds his rock queen--that special someone to do the unskinny bop with until death (or someone hotter) does them part. And I further hope that--as was not the case with Flavor Flav and Hoopz/Deelishis--their reality romance lasts long after the reunion episode airs. (Yeah, right.) But whether or not Bret and his new lady love rock happily ever after, I'll still be viewing, blogging, and obsessing. So watch this space.