Unique Reality Series to Be Cast Without Assholes

hiteywood producers took a bold step in reality programming last Friday when they revealed, as part of the ABC fall schedule, one of their so-called "reality" series would be entirely asshole-free, cast only with likable personalities so unpopular in usual reality programming.

No Simon Cowels, no Donald Trumps, not even a Richard Hatch in sight, according to co-producer Bobbacrane Wilson. It's part of a risky plan to boost sagging reality ratings for those shows which haven't caught on with the public yet; while series like The Apprentice have made major waves, and American Idol holds strong, other reality series like The Restaurant have proven that reality series don't always strike gold every time out. The new "assholeless" series in development will give people bored with regular reality shows a chance to see something different.

"It's not a brand new idea," admitted co-producer of the show Harry Spalding. "Frankly, Hollywood has been trying to create a reality series without assholes since their initial burst in popularity in the early '90s, such as COPS. But once The Real World hit big, people gave up. It became apparent, at least for the time, America would much rather tune in each week and marvel at real assholes."

His partner Wilson agreed: "The big problem in creating a prick-free reality show is nobody could ever seem to do it. It became Hollywood's Gregorian knot. People tried to do reality shows based on churches and found them full of judgmental fire-and-brimstone knobs who wouldn't stop preaching. A reality show about school teachers reminded viewers of why they were in such a hurry to graduate. Someone even did a pilot about people who worked for the Salvation Army—you'd never believe what self-righteous dicks are running that place. It's enough to turn someone Republican."

Many attempts at doing reality shows in small towns, according to Wilson, failed to leave any positive impressions when every good-natured resident was outnumbered by trash-talking rednecks and closet KKK members. But this time, Spalding suggests, by returning to reality programming roots, their show has succeeded in its intent.

The show, Okay House, features six roommates, four of them from Sweden, who live together in a room paid for by the network and forced to resolve their conflicts in a polite, friendly fashion. A bonus incentive of $25,000 to whoever can keep from saying something unkind about other housemates has raised the likelihood of getting a show without jackasses.

An early version of the pilot was available for press review. In the series, the six roommates—Sven, Yorgi, Karl, Jake, Albert, and Bjorn—get into an amicable disagreement over whose turn it is to wash the dishes, as well as a polite war of words over what they can watch on TV. Of the cast, Karl, Sven, and Bjorn are non-English-speaking employees of an electrical cooperative in Sweden who were brought over by the network, Yorgi an Americanized Swedish citizen who was friends with the three in his home country, Jake is a Bible camp youth counselor from Ferngate, North Carolina, and Albert an 85-year-old man who seldom speaks.

While the producers and network claim to have high expectations for "the world's nicest reality show," critics have been less kind. Matt Roush of TV Guide called it "Paint Drying: The Series" and The New York Times predicted it would be the quickest cancellation in TV history.

According to CNN's Jeff Hinkley: "If I hear one more Swedish accent saying, 'I guess we'll agree to disagree,' I'm going to blow a hole through my TV."

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"Feed a cold, starve a fever—that also applies, respectively, to Gandhi and Orson Welles."

I feel like an asshole because I think I got that SARS stuff that's going around. Only nobody else I know has it. It's possible it's not the SARS stuff, since there's not been any reported cases where I live, and that Mexican Sushi place was pretty awful and I got diarrhea the last time I ate there, too, but I'm not taking any chances.

Neither is anybody I know. Taking chances, I mean. They all wear those goofy masks when I come around, but some of them have been doing that for months. They say they don't want to give me nothing, but the way they frown when I accidentally cut cheese says more than words can say. And it sounds like a duck. That's funny. I got to write that one down. I suppose I already did.

Those masks are funny. They remind me of bank robber masks, like in the old west. You know, Billy the Kid and stuff. I bet in Hong Kong where they have lots of SARS it would be easy to rob a bank, you could just walk in wearing a mask like all the SARS people, then pull out a gun and stick up the teller. Tell her you'll give her SARS if she doesn't give you all the money, but don't get a dye pack to go with that. Those dye packs aren't as fun as they look and that's how they catch bank robbers.

Doctors wear those masks all the time. I bet that's why they give you the knock-out gas before the doctor comes in the room. The doctor walks in and you're thinking, "Great, now I'm getting robbed when I came here for surgery!" But they said the doctor doesn't come in before I'm knocked out because every time he sees the bottle sticking out of my ass he cracks up laughing. I tried to tell them I didn't know how he was going to be able to get it out while he was laughing so much, but the gas knocked me out.

Another great bank robber was Jesse James. He had a brother named Frank, but nobody's heard of him. I wonder if Jesse did all the talking and that's why we know him and not Frank. I betcha Frank was probably thinking, "Goddammit, I wish he'd let me say something. He's afraid I'll freeze up and forget the routine, or I might get nervous and blurt out where our hideout is. But he's really just wanting to hog all the history to himself."

I bet Jesse James was pulling down "wanted dead or alive" money in the neighborhood of $30 or something ('cause it was all real cheap in the old west). Frank was stuck with "bring in the head of Frank James and get a free drink of grade-B whiskey." Wow, it really sucked to be Frank James.

That would be funny if Frank James lived forever because he had that SARS mask on all the time, on account of he never did the talking, but Jesse caught SARS because he foolishly pulled the mask down to tell them about the dye packs and stuff. That would suck to be Frank James and live all those years after your brother died and then just catch SARS yourself going to Hong Kong to rob a bank.

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That Jerry Nascar is a dangerous motherfucker. Dangerous as in smart. And, he plays with fireworks and only has a total of seven fingers. But I wasn't talking about that at all—I just mean he's smart.

My trial started three weeks ago, the libel case, where I'm being sued by Jayme Kristofson for calling her words I shouldn't repeat here. Not until I win, and can say them wherever I damn well please. It's an inevitability with Jerry Nascar as my attorney. This guy must have taken every law class they have at Pine Bluffs Community College, 'cause he knows all the tricks. He parked his car in a handicapped space in front of the courthouse and then put a sign on it saying "no engine." How ingenious is that? Technically, the car is handicapped now. That's what lawyers call a "loophole." And Jerry's got more holes than he knows what to do with.

It was Jerry's idea I wear the neckbrace—which I would have done if I had gone to court for a traffic accident, I'm no dummy, but Jerry says you can get neck injuries from anything, even emotional stress, and it never hurts to get crowd sympathy. The judge has even gotten mad at Jerry because he talks to the gallery instead of her, turning to the large number of people and saying stuff like, "You can see what all this huss'n'fuss has done to my client's verbitry—her neck is all outta a-whackment."

Jerry loves surprise witnesses. Sometimes I think they're more for his sake than for mine. He calls people out of the phone book ahead of time and gets them to show up, but they have no idea why. That's the surprise. So they get up there and Jerry asks them questions about what they do, what's their area of expertise. Then the questions get real juicy—do you own any sexy underwear? Have you gone all the way on the first date? You would be surprised how far he gets before the judge says the witness has no relevancy. But you gotta admire his guts.

But he's doing Jayme some damage, too. He somehow wrangled it where Jayme had to wear the Metallichick costume on the stand, and then asked her if she thought she had the figure to pull it off. Under oath, she completely broke down and admitted she didn't. That's got to help the case, if the Honor can look at the big picture.

Jerry may have finally crossed the line last week when he announced he was calling witnesses from the Kennedy assassination to "put this whole mess to rest, once and for all." The judge told him she was sick of his bullshit, so to speak, and demanded he make his final arguments for this particular case, after which she was going to talk to the Bar Association and find out just what bar they held their meetings at. But that was all fine, a bit of a slump for Jerry, but he started into the final summary of the case.

When Jerry launched his closing arguments, brilliance is the only word that comes to mind. He approached the jury and his hands clapped together, then moved to his waist, then waved in the air, then clapped together again. And his words were good, too. He said something like, "What is a 'dildo,' ladies and gentleman of the jury? Who doesn't like a dildo? Tell me that. I fail to see where my client's compliment can even be misconstructed as an insult. Plus, I think if you knew her, you would have called her dildo. Everyone knows she's a pain in the ass."

At that point the judge had to tell Jerry it wasn't a jury trial, and he was delivering his closing remarks to the plaintiff table. Jayme didn't look none too happy, but was too busy crying to tell him off. It's all incidental, I'm sure. I got a good feeling this thing's going to go my way, if the judge ever gets back from deliberating. Or maybe she did, while I was writing this column—do any of you dildos have the time?

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