My New Reality Show

My new reality show, American Sex Laundry, premieres on the Detergent Channel next month and pre-fans checking out the trailer on social media are already asking, "How the hell did you get your own reality show?"

As with any great reality show, from Small Town Douchebag to Real Scalawags of Rural Montana, the first step in crafting a successful program is developing a great premise that encourages mentally unstable people to argue vociferously, oblivious to the millions of rabid viewers at home vicariously egging them on. For American Sex Laundry, I painstakingly crafted a brilliant premise: to pit beautiful, egotistical, yet extremely psychologically damaged, men and women against each other in the alluring, yet relatable, setting of a boutique, high-end laundromat catering to the obscenely over-privileged.

I began the audition process by seeking out conceited fashionistas with a taste for outrageous and forward-looking attire, such as aluminum reflective bikinis and edible baseball caps made from locally-grown quinoa synthetics. I then submitted each potential new reality star to a regimen of psychological tests of my own devising.

First came the Mockery Grill. For this test, I invited each candidate to a bar and then softened them up with lavish praise, a few drinks and a complimentary dessert of mango-chunk ice cream accompanied by fresh kiwi. I then ruthlessly peppered them with unprovoked, mean-spirited jibes on their attire, such as "That Ecuadoran scarf makes you look like a mutilated toucan" or "I thought bamboo peasant hats went out of style with the first great Five Year Plan." If the subject sat sulkily glaring at me from behind their strawberry margarita or was quickly reduced to a sobbing mess, I knew they weren’t reality material. But if they counter-attacked me with equally cutting put downs, such as "Yeah, well your sister regurgitates banana paste to feed baby chimps for a living," I knew they had potential for greatness.

After the Mockery Grill came the Preening Marathon. The Preening Marathon is a narcissism evaluator designed to determine how long each candidate can obsess over their appearance in front of a three-sided mirror, despite a series of extreme distractions. Without a high quotient of unrestrained narcissism, your reality star wannabe will never be able to sustain the relentless navel-gazing required of an obsession-worthy, newly minted celebrity. One of my first finds, Felicia Dawnhat, passed the Preening Marathon with flying colors. She artfully modeled a series of tropical print mini-skirts while a team of heavily muscled jackhammer operators pummeled the sidewalk just outside the boutique. On the other hand, Luis Velazquez, a busboy training to be a folklorico dancer, got bored after trying on just a couple knit caps and quickly started a game of bocce ball with a passing sanitation worker.

The final test was the Self-Respect Review. A group of dignified, self-respecting reality performers is as interesting to watch as a session of the Swedish legislature. I had to test whether my candidates were shameless enough to exhibit their lowest, most debased qualities with little or no hesitation. To test for this quality, I provided each contestant with a certificate valid for dinner at an elegant Beverly Hills steakhouse. After their dinner salad had been served, I arranged for the maître d to announce a special five-minute, all-you-can-slurp period at the chocolate waterfall beside the bar. From my inconspicuous station in a booth opposite the waterfall feature, I observed each contestant jostle, push and wrangle their way into the herd of ravenous slurpers who instantly descended on the chocolate cascade. The more flagrantly the candidates displayed a complete disregard for decorum and their fellow diners, the more I knew they would be suited to the humiliating degradations of a laundry-based reality show. I was especially impressed with truck driver Luther Boilhead who impetuously careened from his spot on a distant barstool to commandeer a position standing on the bar near the beer taps, where he leaned over and gulped up great draughts of chocolate before it could dribble down to the floor-based slurpers.

With my numerous tests and evaluations completed, I was tired, frazzled, and, frankly, pretty disgusted. But I was also confident that I had assembled a team of mocking, narcissistic, shameless egomaniacs who would make a compelling, highly entertaining mixture for my program, a group sure to erupt in a constant stream of bickering and impetuous fights that would rivet the viewer. Now I just have to sit back and watch the laundry cycles spin out of control.

In the meantime, keep an eye out for my next upcoming show, set in the no-holds-barred reality of a small town, all-you-can-eat barbecue buffet.