Reality Television

After three days of searching to buy something online during Black Friday and Cyber Monday, I ended up with nothing. Everything I truly wanted, like a HD Camcorder with a built in GPS and electric shaver, was just too expensive.

If I was ever going to be a decent consumer, I needed more money. And fast. But how? Blogging was a dead end street. Writing? Only complete idiots go into writing to make money. I took a long, hard, cold look at myself in the bathroom mirror and accepted that I had no marketable skills other than being a “social media expert” (code for being on Twitter a lot, telling silly jokes)

When times are tough, and they are in America in 2009, there is only one option available for someone unskilled like myself — getting onto reality television. From faking balloon dramas to crashing White House parties, the best and brightest of our country know the route to success is not hard work, but landing a reality show on Bravo.

I sat down with my mother during breakfast this morning to discuss my options. I assumed she wanted “in” on the deal.

“We need to come up with a stunt that will get us attention.” I said. “Something that will knock any mention of health care reform off the news. We want America talking about us.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I could smash your car window with a golf club.”

“Eh. That’s old.”

“You would have better luck getting a reality show with Sophia,” said my mother. “Maybe you can get a show called “The Weirdest Marriage Ever.”

“No. I think the two of us have a better on-air dynamic. Besides, she isn’t talking to me.”

We took a few moments to brainstorm as we ate our Cheerios. I suggested that we try to come up with an idea that said “New York,” to give our gimmick some local flavor.

My mother had an idea.

“I saw on eyewitness news that they are lighting the Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center on Wednesday.”

“Perfect. The cameras will already be there for our stunt.”

But what would be our stunt?

“I got it!” I shouted. “How about — right before they light the tree — we CLIMB up the tree — shocking everything with our daring ways! We would definitely get a reality show from that. Can’t you see the promotion? — “Mother and son who’ll do anything! Every week, a different stunt!”

My mother was not impressed.

“I’m too old to climb the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree anymore. And seriously, are you going to be able to climb the tree?”

“I can try.”

“Have you ever climbed a tree?”

“No, but I am sure there are branches that you can hold on to.”

My mother continued to express her doubt.

“Besides, it is too dangerous. Some NYPD cop might just shoot you off the tree, and you would fall flat on your face, like King Kong. And then, there will be no reality show at all.”

“That’s true.”

I went back into thinking mode, or “put on my thinking cap,” as they used to say.

“Eureka!” I said, knowing that people are suppose to say “Eureka” at moments like this, even though I’m not sure why. “We can both streak naked across Rockefeller Center during the tree lighting — right in front of the tree — right in front of the cameras.”

“It’s going to be freezing outside.”

“We’ll just be outside for a second. Then we’d run into 30 Rock to get dressed. I know a soup place around the corner where we can warm up with some hot chicken soup.”

Then my mother said something that completely changed the tone of the conversation.

“I just realized I can’t do this with you on Wednesday!”

“Why not?” I asked, already disappointed.

“I’m flying back to Boca Raton tomorrow. Time for me to be a snowbird again!”

“Back to Florida? Tomorrow? Already? For how long?”

“Until April. Back when the birds and flowers return.”

“So, you mean — I’m back to living on my own?”

I bowed my head, acting like a drama queen.

“Don’t look so sad. You should be happy. The place is yours now. Your own little bachelor pad. Don’t you have those BlogHer and Kirtsy parties this week? Why don’t you bring a few of those blogging babes over here for a little partying and “getting it on!” I know you have been having dreams about ****ing ***** and ****** and ******* and especially ****** in the ******!”

“Mom, that’s disgusting!” I said, in total shock. “I’ve never heard you talk like that before!”

But when I looked up at my mother, she was drinking her orange juice, looking as if she never made that outburst at all.

“Huh? What are you talking about?” she asked, confused. “I said I am going to Florida tomorrow.”

“You didn’t mention anything about having wild parties in the apartment?”

“I said I HOPE you keep the apartment clean.”

“So, who…”

“Yoo-hoo!”

I felt a tapping on my thigh. I looked down under the table.

“Penis, is that you?!” I asked. It had been ages since I had heard him talking to me. I totally gave up on this crass literary gimmick hoping to never see him again as I made my blog into something more “classy,” hoping to appeal to a more educated demographic.

“Surprised to see me pop up like this?” he joked.

“I thought we were done with the cheap sex gags on this blog.”

“Sorry about that, sucker! You can’t keep a good Penis down.”

“But why? Why this sudden reappearance?”

“Reappearance?” he chuckled. “Oh, Neil, I never left. I NEVER LEFT.”