The other night I had an idea for a television show titled “I Hate Television.” It’s about a reluctant reality star. When approached to be a contestant or participant or whatever, he refuses and delivers a scathing tirade condemning reality programming and American culture in one fell swoop. He goes so far as to tell the paparazzi-like agents following him that their bosses, the execs, are “corpse-raping vulture filth,” and that the cameramen are "parasites gnawing on the skinlesss underbelly of a cancerous whale."

Naturally, this endears him to the television folks. They love him. Unfortunately for them, they can’t convince him to sign up, sell out, and join the club. They follow him, pester him, and entice him, all the while filming their stalking pursuit in the hopes of one day airing the footage.

They really want him on board because of the pure unabated bile he spews out. He’s hateful comedy gold. (Yes, I am basing this character on me. Shut up.) I’m trying out some dialogue for a few scattered scenes here and there. Up they will go on this very site, not necessarily in chronological order.

I’m gonna see how many episodes I can cram into the front half of the season, which builds up to our angry hero finally breaking down and offering the TV fucks this ultimatum:

“You want me on TV? Fine. But the only way I’m gonna join your filthy little reality cabal is as a host. A mean host, like the American Idol guy, but ten times the bastardism.”

Then the fun really begins.

[Season 1, Episode 1, Scene 1 - Setting: Office Building Hallway]

“The camera crews will be here at eleven.”

“The fuck you say.”

“No, really, I’m serious. The boss approved it and everything. We’re officially in the tryout stage. The show is about office drama, workplace politics, people under stress, stuff like that. They’re checking out small companies all over Chicago today. They’re taking demo footage, and then they’re gonna pick out one or two businesses and do reality shows about them. If we’re picked, we’ll be on for a whole season. So be on your most entertaining behavior.”

“Horseshit. Horseshit, I say. This is preposterous. I protest. Do you really wanna be the human equivalent of a chimpanzee at the zoo, locked in your cage all day, scratching your lopsided testicles and flinging your feces at weeping children with ice cream all over their shirts?”

“I’m not sure if you know this, Steve, but I don’t have testicles. I’m a girl. You know, a female?”

“Ha ha. My analogy still stands and will not wilt under heavy scrutiny. The comparison is horribly accurate. Reality television shows exploit the average American’s desperate desire to validate his existence by looking down upon some other schmo, while deep down inside he wishes it was him on the show. Secretely he pangs to see his own drooling mug beaming from primetime. I am unwilling to debase myself before the cruel altar of fleeting micro-fame. I will not strut around waving my cock at the camera. I will not put on airs of being Mr. Suburban Hot Shit 2006. I will not sashay suggestively about, preening and cooing like some horribly non-aware jackass, allowing obese ice cream slurping housewives to generate those feelings of superiority that swell up in their ugly cow brains like ballooning tumors every single day they sit there gobbling and watching. I will not be America’s Next Top Whipping Boy. I refuse to allow this corrosion of my dignity. I won't play. I will not be this week's example, reduced to my caricature, another kneejerk semi-human turd for every viewer at home to look down upon. Fuck this.”

“You need to lay off the coffee.”

“Energy drinks, actually. Nice and cold and fizzy for summertime. Also irrelevant. Whose idea was this? I must know.”

“Ummmm… mine.”

“Rita, shame on you. I’ll fart in your office later for this.”

6:17 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm