two-twenty

rich girls in rags, and on the rag

What a superb night of television. With barely 24 hours to recover from the shock and awe produced by Average Joe's Melana-as-Fat-Bastard "surprise" (p.s. Goodbye, vapid alien in a man suit! Goodbye, fuckface Zack!), I was not sure I could withstand the one-two punch of not only a new Rich Girls, but also the long-awaited Episode I: The Celebutante Menace.

I lived, and I learned. From Rich Girls I learned that eponymous starlets of reality television should not allow camera crews to follow them when they are obviously in some PMS-induced manic depressive spiral of Wurtzellian proportions. From The Simple Life I learned that Nicole Ritchie is not attractive, jeans CAN be too lowcut, and that I would need a doctorate in psychology as well as postmodern Marxist theory to understand, let alone explain, Paris Hilton's dissociative, coldy self-objectifying and capitalistic interactions with anyone of the opposite sex.