So, my wife’s got a thing for those drug addiction shows — well, those and anything with “Housewives” or “Dance” in the title (for the love of God, woman, I think you’re trying to kill me). She just can’t get enough of those sad little “my baby’s on heroin, help me television producers!” shows. And so she’s constantly roping me into watching them, telling me they’re good “research.” Yeah, right… because it’s so important for me to know how little Johnny or Janie the junkie got that way and how much their clueless parents love them. My job’s more about busting Johnny and throwing his ass in jail — yeah, watch him get clean now.
The legal issues on these shows — I mean, how do they get away with showing these junkies shooting up or smoking crack, or snorting coke off the street with a tampon applicator? (I shit you not — a tampon applicator. I was both horrified and impressed by the girl’s creativity.)
And of course mommy and daddy have no idea how their little precious got to be so effed up. And then it comes out — oh, mommy used to lock Johnny in the closet when he was bad or granddaddy always had Janie over for “special” sleepovers. And mommy and daddy felt it best to just pretend it never happened. Always a solid strategy, numbnuts. And yeah, yeah, I’m being tough on these people. I know I should be more sympathetic (says my wife, Mother Theresa herself), but I deal with these dickbags every day. Gimme a break.
Besides, if I’m gonna be forced to watch some reality crap, it better involve cage-fighting, fat assholes losing weight against all odds, or crab-fishing.Read More