Return to Sender: That's Why They Call It Trash

Dear myphl17:

What have you done to me?

I realize I'm unemployed (again – sigh), but I swear, I really do have better things to do with my time than watch you.

And yet here I sit, as often as three times per day, finding out who the baby daddy is, what the lie detector said, and whether it's a chick or a dude in the dress. That's right. I'm watching Maury. (Oh, I am so proud that he's an alum of my alma mater!) Yesterday, I even DVRed the show because I had to run an errand but I still wanted to find out the results of the paternity test. (In fairness, he was the fourth guy she'd tested, so part of my curiosity was pure schadenfreude.) It's a new level of pathetic for me – and this is coming from the person who could waste an hour watching this on a loop.

It gets worse: the other day, when Maury ended, I didn't turn the TV off quickly enough, and I ended up watching Jerry Springer. Now, I remember watching Springer during summer break while I was in middle school, and it was a metaphorical three-ring circus back then. Now, oh Channel 17? Now, it's a literal three-ring circus. The ten minutes of the show I caught before tossing my cookies on my way to turn the television off (other people use a remote control, but I like the exercise) featured a gay ex-couple who met at a Walmart and a woman who thought she was a cat (she even ate cat food), along with a plate-spinner, a stilt-walker, a juggler, and a man who is literally all torso. Not only does he not have legs, he doesn't have an ass. He just stops at the waist. And apparently his job (oh yes, he's a regular!) is to walk around the stage on his fists and molest the guests, who are apparently told to ignore him. It's terrifying. I swore I'd never watch Springer again.

And so far I've succeeded.

Maury, on the other hand, is a different story. I find myself IMing my friends at their jobs to say: "Oh my god, this dude thinks he only has male sperm, so the baby can't be his because it's a girl" or "This guy says it can't be his baby because it makes funny faces and he doesn't make funny faces." I caught myself at happy hour last night talking genetics, and actually bringing up an example from Maury. If I can draw you a Punnett square to explain how it is possible that Maury Guest A fathered the baby of Maury Guest B, something is seriously wrong with my priorities.

I have other things to do, I do. Like, I dunno, find a job. And it's not that I'm not doing them. (I've applied to several jobs this week alone.) But the fact that I'm scheduling my day around trash television makes me feel... well, just a little bit trashy, myself. Next thing you know, you'll see me shopping at the grocery store in a housecoat and slippers with curlers in my hair. It's a sad state of affairs.

But at least I'm not actually on Maury. Not yet, at least. I'll wait until I need to find out who the daddy is.

Image Credit: Flickr user Jessica DeWinter