Why Can't God Just Strike Me Blind?

It's an inevitability. Any resistance on my part is futile and humiliating -- like a polio stricken dwarf trying to swim out of a strong undertow, I cannot escape the strong pull of MTV. As is fairly evident by most of my opinions and tastes, I'm not so much into the MTV. I would join in the cavalcade of trite hacks that scream about how they don't even show music videos anymore, except that the alternative from their network programming would be 24 hours of Britney Spears, 50 Cent, 3 Doors Down, and Beyonce -- the Four Horseman of a Doomed Generation. I do believe MTV is an evil presence in our consciousness; it pulsates like a festering cancerous tumor, leaking out tainted blood of superficiality and stupidity all with a professionally whitened smile.

And yet, I cannot look away.

I admit that I watch two shows on MTV fairly regularly (the aforementioned Real World/Road Rules Challenge and the incredible Wonder Showzen on MTV2). I will defend my tastes in those two shows to the death, although I will always feel perpetual shame for enjoying them. But beyond those two shows I tend to avoid MTV as if it was the Chatty Coked Up Ugly Girl at a party -- she's dying to talk to me, breathless and unblinking, but unfortunately tells me nothing and only wastes my time and slowly kills my soul, and wears materials that are far too shiny and sleek for the type of disheveled mess of a peson that she truly is inside.

But it still happens. I'm quickly scanning through channels: a hyperactive consciousness acrobat, jumping from image to image, quickly approving or disdaining whatever millisecond of a program I stumble upon. And then I land on MTV. I hate whatever's on the screen. I hate the music that is playing behind the vacant and near retarded words that are spewing from my speakers like audio gonorrhea. But what's truly horrible is that I stick on that image. I stay on the channel and stare, fixated like I'm helplessly watching a building collapse around its inhabitants. I want to look away, I really do. I want to stop the pain, stop the screaming in my head and the torment in my soul, but I can't. I'm transfixed by whatever intellectual and cultural atrocity is transpiring onscreen.

Being part of the hipster nerd contingent (or at least fancying myself a part of that despicable and depressingly lame tribe), I will partake in the occasional Ironic Viewing. What this means is that I'll watch something that's bad just so I can laugh at it, mock it, and proudly say that I survived the horror to which I subjected myself. It's the basis of Cheap Seats, Mystery Science Theater 3000, and Patton Oswalt's sense of humor. But this isn't Ironic Viewing.

My thousand yard MTV stare is like Kyle MacLachlan's gaze in that scene in Blue Velvet when he's in the closet, watching Dennis Hopper act all Dennis Hoppery while Isabella Rossellini writhes in pain. It's a gaze full of dread, disgust, hatred, shame, and ultimately, morbid fascination -- is this the other side of things, that putrid underbelly that I never see outside of my own twisted mind?

I settle down and watch (or withstand) 3/4 of an episode of The Ashlee Simpson Show, the entire time a running mantra of

ihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihateihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethis

thisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisi

ihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihate

ihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisohatethisihatethisihatethisi

hatethisihatethisihatethisihatethisohfortheloveofchristdoihatethishorribleshit

runs through my mind, almost drowning out the moronic proverbs that prepackaged mongoloid deigns worthy of sharing to the world. Almost drowning them out, but not quite.

One of the shows that I've recently stumbled upon, uncovering it like a scandalous affair between a mentally challenged carny and his curious goat, is Making the Band 3. In it, P. Diddy is forming a girl pop group, assembling it out of a rag tag collection of girls who all want to realize their dreams of eating disorders, drug addictions, and experiencing an unforgiving media backlash. Making the Band 3, while deplorable, is not without its own set of lessons, and it is in this spirit of optimism and stone cold consternation that I present

12 LESSONS FROM MAKING THE BAND 3

1. P. Diddy, like everyone else in this world, just wants to be Debbie Allen in Fame, screaming at dancing girls and smacking a stick against the floor. "You've got big dreams? You want fame? Well, fame costs. And right here is where you start paying. With sweat."

2. Twentysomething girls give out hugs like teenage boys get erections: randomly and often.

3. It's too much, Miss Thang! Too Much! Too much! Too Much! (several hours pass...) And another thing: It's just Too Much! Too much! Too much!

4. People from Denver can't dance. Yes, even the black sassy girls from Denver. Hell, ESPECIALLY the black sassy girls from Denver.

5. No matter how many times a format has failed (Making the Band show) or how often one genre of music (girl pop) yields little to no gain for someone, that particular person should stick with it no matter what. Especially as long as MTV is footing the bill. And don't even worry about what it's doing to the cultural landscape, cuz we're all fucked anyways.

6. Evidently, God (specifically Jesus) has a plan for everyone. For some, it's becoming Nationally Recognized Skanks. For others, it's being rejected on Cable from the position of Nationally Recognized Skank. Jehovah works in mysterious ways.

7. Even a sassy, fat, pockmarked, power mad, stereotypical gay queen makes fun of Erykah Badu and her head wraps. I'm Sorry, Miss Jackson.

8. Apparrently, when dancing, all women from the ages of 19-23 dress like a cross between Jennifer Lopez, Cyndi Lauper, and a diseased whore from the French Revolution. And it is considered "hot".

9. Irony does not exist within the hallowed halls of Bad Boy Records.

10. No one shall ever refer to the previous and horrible failure that was the product of Making the Band 2. In fact, it is highly probable that everyone that was involved in Da Band has since been killed, as have their families, and then their deaths were covered up in some hideous and disturbing manner. RIP Chopper AKA Young City, Fred, Dylan aka "Hot Fiyah", Sara Stokes, Ness, and Babs -- may you find the peace in death that eluded you so in life. Hoepfully you can take some solace in the fact that P. Diddy hasn't exploited your demises or created a horrible song in tribute of your passing.

11. This new band is gonna make Dream look like Total. Am I right? Huh? Yeah! (God bless anyone that got that joke -- cuz you're going to need all the help you can get.)

12. I'm an idiot who has wasted too much time in my life. All of those little half hours devoted to this gyrating trainwreck will never be recovered. Because of Making the Band 3, I will now probably die about 4 hours earlier than originally intended.

So there ya go. Hope y'all have been as educated by this little lesson plan as I was by watching the horrible monstrosity.