Remember when we had that little chat about Rock of Love 2 and how you actually had a pro-woman stance (for once) and didn't totally shit the bed? No? Let me refresh your memory. Obviously, that whole thing was a fluke. Let's sit down and talk about your issues as expressed through Rock of Love 3 aka Rock of Love: Bus. Don't worry, that annoying brush of rationality you had? Totally gone. You have so thoroughly shit the bed that there is no saving it. Burn the bed. Kill it with fire like Farrah Fawcett did in that movie from 1984...The Burning Bed. Jump the shark. Jump it right over Brett Michael's giant bewigged and bedazzled fivehead.
This season of Rock of Love: Bus, or ROLB as I will hereafter refer to it, was terrible and more unforgivably awful than that, it was borrring. Truly, the veneer wore pretty thin this season with the girls barely capable of remembering Brett's real name through their extended tequila haze (I'm looking at you Marcia). The girls themselves were hardly worth remembering either. I watched the entire season, and during the reunion show, I kept asking myself, "Who the fuck is this girl? Did she ever speak? What's her name? WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?"
Let me break it down for you. This season Brett, who literally makes me cringe and avert my eyes every time he openmouth kisses some poor girl and jams his tongue down her throat, has decided that the best way to find a woman who can hang with his lifestyle is to take the most vapid collection of strippers, porn stars, hoebags, and alcoholics on the road with him. Because the road is his home and crazy shit happens on the road and he is the road and blah blah blah stds, bandannas, and guyliner. Blech. Blech. Blech.
There are so many skanks that Brett needs two tour buses to contain them and all of their "baggage" while he resides on his own tour bus. I'd like to see this season's carbon footprint on paper, and yet, I am waayyyy to lazy to work it out. Rest assured ROLB is as poisonous to the environment as it is to cable TV. Rock of Love: Bus, this season everyone loses even the environment; no, make that especially the environment. Left to their own devices, the women breakdown along blonde and brunette lines. Blondes in the pink bus; brunettes in the blue bus. Amusingly hateful whores in the pink bus; boringly buxom bimbos in the blue bus. PS. I am so glad that this show is not in smell-o-vision because I am fairly certain that these girls do not know the most important rule of the tour bus and that is: never, ever shit on the bus. I can only imagine the enticing melange of cheetos, barf, and smelly party dumps that infused these buses with a certain eau de skankette that was almost visible through my television set. I swear I saw those little wavy cartoon stink lines manifesting themselves from the footage. teh horrors.
Come take my hand, let us walk down memory lane as we salute some of the more memorable ladies of this season. First and foremost, let us speak of DJ Ladytribe. A faker construct of womanhood does not exist anywhere. Yes, she was the standard: platinum hair bleached to within an inch of its life, fake tits, and duck-billed platypus lips, but DJ Ladytribe was special. Special in an overly medicated and not too bright but thoroughly fantastic way. Nikki, her real name, takes it upon herself to inform the world that she got her fake tits to make it harder for her to make graffiti art, thus keeping herself out of jail. Genius! Truly, an awe-inspiring logic chain. She proceeds to write Brett a love poem on the back of STD informational pamphlets she picked up at the free clinic.
Let's give it to Nikki, I have never seen a better attempt at truth in advertising than watching her rap her love for Brett off of, what is clearly, CLEARLY, the back of a herpes fact sheet. This is not her only claim to fame though. Oh no, she will forever be known as the girl who did a shot out of another girl's cooch. Slobberingly hot mess Gia, a blondetourage founding member, is the lucky girl who lends her chocha for the twat shot, a buttery nipple in a test tube. I can't write shit this poignant people. No, teh horrors, they write themselves. Sadly, neither DJ Ladytribe nor Gia made it past the first few episodes. Surely, if they had stayed, this season would have been more interesting, but alas, it was not to be.
I briefly touched on the glory that is Marcia above. Brazilian bombshell with a penchant for tequila, Marcia started drinking every day at about 9am and was so thoroughly trashed she was vomiting by the time Brett came around, but props to Marcia she would boot and then kiss Brett, who never met a drunk, pukey girl he didn't want to make out with. HOT! Obviously, she was drinking to kill the pain of being on this show. Marcia liked to talk directly to her dear friend, the tequila bottle, "You're going down!" In her exit interview, she blithely admitted to never having a sober, non-blacked out conversation with Chad wait I mean Brett. Or was his name Chad? If his name wasn't Jose Cuervo, Marcia wasn't interested.
And then, there was the Blondetourage aka Ashley and Farrah. Yes, they were strippers. Yes, they had bleached blonde hair, MONSTROUS fake tits, hideous fake tans and pounds of makeup, but I swear to you they were the best thing on the show this season. They were just so mean to everyone else in an amusingly charming way. The other girls sucked so hard this year that you really wanted someone to pick on them and maybe stir a little life into the blowup dolls. They did seem to actually enjoy kissing Brett (ptui), but they also seemed to enjoy showering together and kissing each other too, so maybe they were just horny and drunk the whole time. There were so many special moments like the time they showed up so trashed to elimination that they could barely walk or the way they threw frozen Lean Cuisines into other girl's faces. Sad times followed when they were each eliminated because the girls left behind were so dulllll, girls that talked about cereal and crimping each other's hair for hours. It was like being at the most boring sleepover in the world with the threat of a pervy uncle with a weave crashing it at any time. Even Brett was bored. Brett actually had to stop halfway through the season and bring three more random girls he picked up...where? Did he find them at a truck stop? Or by the side of the road? Who knows, but since most of the other girls seemed more interested in getting drunk and kissing on each other; he had to add skanks midstream. Poor Brett, but don't feel too sorry for 'ole Brett because he consistently eliminated every girl who had any sort of personality at all until he had retained the 3 dullest women on the planet.
In the end, it came down to the FINAL 3: Methface Starfucker (I never did catch her real name), down home country girl Mindy, and 40-yr old Penthouse Pet Robot Taya. If Taya was 29, then I am the Queen of motherfucking England. The last few episodes were so awkward, just Brett and these girls sitting around staring at each other. NO conversation. No spark, no fire, no pizzazz. Just palpable boredom. You know it's pretty bad when Brett has to try to make chitchat at the group dinner and falls so flat he has to threaten them with group expulsion in an attempt to pump some life into these women, and it STILL doesn't work.
In the end, it came down to two equally tedious but different female archetypes. The folksy Betty-type, a genuine enough bimbette with a twangy accent, vs. the arm candy Veronica, a constantly self-promoting Penthouse robot. The preceding season we watched Brett choose an actual independent woman, and we were shocked. What a positive message to send to the burgeoning baby whores of the world, that an actual woman with her own successful job, real boobs, and a brain was someone to emulate and strive to be. Obviously, such a positive message was an utter fluke. The dual message of ROLB this year was a) if you have even a tiny bit of personality, a spark, a bit of gumption that makes you interesting, then you better get the fuck off the bus, quick. You should strive to be dull, unthreatening, shallow window dressing that doesn't get into "funks" (emotions are such a turn-off). Therein lies your path to glory. b) The ideal woman is an unfeeling automaton that shows her vagina to the masses for a living, so get out there girls: turn off your emotions, shuck your clothes, and shill, shill, shill. Be not a woman but a marketing machine because every man wants the perfect trophy wife with fake tits and dead eyes, the accessory that contrasts but does not outshine his bedazzled bandana. Remember ladies, the one who sells herself the most wins the STD-infested bloaty rocker with dia-beetus. Dreams can come true. It can happen to you!
*shiver* *gags* During the course of writing this blog post, I found the following picture which eloquently sums up this whole boring season. In fact, forget everything I wrote. Just look at this picture (via FuzzyCo) .