RANT: Show Me The Pussy!

Oh, wow. Just wow. Just when you thought primetime gameshows couldn’t stoop any lower. Have you seen Show Me The Money? I bet you haven’t. And you know what? That’s really okay. It will be minutes and minutes of your life that you will never get to live again, and that’s a price far too high to pay. After all, you could just go to Hooters, and then you’d at least get some wings and a beer with your t’n’a.

I’m sure there are young lesbians and boys everywhere just salivating over this show. I’m waiting for the Clearasil ads to appear in the commercial slots. That and Trojan condoms. For her pleasure.

This thing, man, it’s Reno, not Las Vegas, goes gameshow. It debuts Nov. 22, on ABC. They had a special preview tonight. Aw, gee. Special! Thanks, ABC!

Your host? William Shatner. Who, I might add, is all gussied-up like a ‘70s porn producer who has a side gig as Tony Bennet’s promoter. Black tuxedo shirt, red vest, black tuxedo suit. Shit-eating grin. Alcoholic’s doughiness.

His sidekick? Why, there’s a good dozen or so of ‘em! The Dancers! Yes, if that ‘80s institution, Solid Gold, mated with The Price Is Right, it would be this. Throw in a healthy dose of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? and Deal or No Deal? and you got yourself Show Me The Money. They’re all bombshells, too, and you just KNOW their cellphones have at least one plastic surgeon’s number in ’em.

This, quite possibly, could honestly be as low as it goes. I mean, you couldn’t have more blatant sexualizing of women that you’ve got in this fucking show. You got yer 13 dancers, and they’re all ho’d up with their red micro-tube dress with hollowed-out backs. They come in dancing like they’re fresh from their Girls! Girls! Girls! tour where they took on names like Fluffy Cums-a-Lot and Mi-Yung Cunt.

And they all take their places on the stage, which, I shit you not, has six or so “terraces” and each, heh heh, comes with its very own pole. Uh-huh. And all these girls do is stand there beside a scroll that’s sitting on a stool, and they wait until, yes, the “contestant” chooses them and has them serve their use. And then, well, they’re no longer of any use and they stand there looking pretty, until Shatner instructs them to dance.

Even the stage/studio is decorated like it’s a stripper club out of Beverly Hills Cop.

Good god. And you should see fucking Shatner! At the end of the show, his eyes practically POP with glee when he says, “Ladies, let’s have the dance for this-hot-young-sailor-from-the-Navy-but-I-can’t-remember-his-name.” And Shatner gets down and boogies with the girls on the stage, surrounding the sailor, who’s a fucking numbskull and lost $420,000 on a dumb-ass question. I veto his right to oxygen, all right? Paula Abul? Paula Poundstone! Fucking ditz.

The only thing I can possibly say about the show is that it’s about goddamned time that someone thanked Cameron Crowe for his “gimme” of a gameshow title, a la Cuba Gooding Jr. and his Scientologist freak of a friend, Tom Cruise. Hell. It took, what, eight years? It was only the most repeated phrase that year. Who doesn’t compute it to be a good name for a gameshow? Not a piece of shit like this, but hey, good name.

The premise of the game is too fucking complicated to explain in a nutshell, ergo the show probably has an unfortunate half-life of about 2/3s of a season. If that. But the premise itself? Not too bad. No brains involved, really, and far too many safeties built in, even though you know they’re prescreening the contestants, and it’s obvious they’re stacking the deck.

Don’t even get me fucking started about the dancers. Throw any old goddamned mix of feminist complaints in there and I’ll go “Yeah! That!” Treating women as sexual objects? They DANCE on FUCKING COMMAND! They’re USED ONCE and DISCARDED. They serve no purpose but that of looking pretty… suggestive. What they do, a chimpanzee – or a signboard – could do.

Yeah, you’re bloody right I find it offensive! I find it STUNNING to be happening so blatantly, and with few apologies, in a mainstream primetime slot! Fuck, man. It’s 2006. Can we please get the hell past Barbie?

I don’t know, man. How do you close with a “bang” on something so goddamned potent as this? A creepy old dirty widower who won an Emmy playing a redneck misogynist (if it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, chances are…) and a dozen chicks who are trying to fuck their way into a better place in Hollywood, each of whom has their very own pole on primetime television (but – wink, wink – they don’t use it). I honestly am at a loss here. I’m really beginning to wonder if the whole women’s movement-success/advancement-of-women’s-issues thing was just a really dull, happy dream I had had that I’m finally waking up from. I mean, I just got to wonder.

Don’t you?