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Charmed, I’m sure
Some of you (hopefully, many, many of you) may be unfamiliar with a reality show called Flavor of Love. As one who believes in keeping entertainment real by keeping it unreal, this show got really high marks from me. For starters, the show’s “love interest” Flavor Flav (which I suspect is not his given name) is not only as plain as a mud fence, he’s living proof that black does, indeed, crack. The premise of the show is that a dozen or so women are madly in love with Flav, and are willing to prove their undying devotion and worthiness as a life partner by calling each other names while trying to pull each other’s hair (real or imagined) out by the roots.
That show was apparently so successful, it spawned another unreal reality show, I Love New York. Now, some of you (hopefully, many, many of you) may be wondering what a show promoting the Big Apple has to do with any of this. New York isn’t a city. New York (which I suspect is not her given name) was a woman who apparently came in second to Flav’s affections, but made such a good impression on the show’s producers, they gave her her own unreal reality show of her own. I can’t really comment because I didn’t really watch it, unless you count pausing briefly on VH1 during the I Love New York marathon to see if I could tell what was tattooed over her left breast. I couldn’t. I might have been able to if it hadn’t been for the glare from all that body oil. Not that she needed it - her headlights were already on high beam.
Anyway, back to Charm School. Flavor of Love Charm School brings together all of Flav’s rejects where they will vye for the chance to win $50,000 by NOT calling each other names or trying to pull each other’s hair (real or imagined). Some of you (hopefully, many, many of you) may be wondering how hard could that be?
Well, apparently it is very, very hard for people who have been forced to accept improperly spelled nicknames such as “Toasteee” and “Bootz” and “Pumkin.” They’re not even clever misspellings. They’re just lame.That alone would cause me to rebel.
Fortunately, the instructor and taskmaster, Mo’Nique, releases the burden of these lame names first thing. Well, except for Saaphyri. Turns out, that is her real name.
I like Mo’Nique. She knows unreality when she sees it and doesn’t hesitate to say things like, “Baby, that’s your real name?” then rip her name tag off anyway and throw it into the fire. Now that’s keepin it real.
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