Okay. Okay. I know I’m a snobby bitch about a lot of things. I like literature and films and I have an 80GB iPod and blah blah. I know it’s a flaw and I’m trying to work on it, for real. I promise. And that is why I can say this without hesitation or guilt or anything like that, and it doesn’t even really feel like this statement should be ironic though I suppose it is, in some way… anyway. Here we go.
What a brilliant play on words.
I fucking love VH1 reality shows. I really do. I actually own season one of Flavor of Love on DVD. I religiously watched Rock of Love 2. Miss Rap Supreme is amazing. Celebrity Rehab–okay that was weird, but I love Dr. Drew. Celebrity Fit Club, what a good idea, and fuck Screech. Naturally, all of these shows are amazing and I watch them all the time, usually on reruns during the afternoon as I sit on the couch in my apartment and pig out on ramen noodles and diet coke. But no matter the brilliance achieved by any of the previously mentioned programs, there will always be one reality TV star who will always have my heart. No, it’s not Bret Michaels. It’s not Peter Brady or whatever his fucking name is. It certainly isn’t Adrianne Curry. It could almost be Flavor Flav, but that’s another post entirely. Nay, my reality obsession is… drumroll…
The psychotic, anti-spitting, “princess” tattooed, spawn of Sister Patterson, owner of ten thousand weaves, the only true HBIC, the bitch whose fake eyelashes weigh down her eyelids, the one and only NEW YORK.
God that woman is amazing. I’ve loved her since Flavor of Love 1. In fact, she’s sorta the reason I
Ohhh gurrl. WORK DAT UPDO.
bought the DVD box set. I can’t decide if she is literally that mentally whacked or if she’s that good of an actress. If the latter is true, then I think VH1 should take the first step and create some sort of reality tv award show and give that bitch the numero uno best of the best award. The statue could be a golden cast of Flavor Flav’s dick or something. Whatever, she deserves it. If she really is that unstable, then she should still get the award, because I’d be afraid of her if she was denied. You know she and her mother would suddenly grow claws (real ones, not those insane acrylics) and sport fangs and pop out batwings and throw a motherfucking blitzkrieg onto whoever didn’t give her what she wanted. She’d send Tailor Made out to do her bidding, except he doesn’t look like a balding sweaty boy anymore, he’s turned into a gollum-esque creature from New York only letting him out of her closet for when she wants sex or ice cream.
Which brings me to the bad news. NEW YORK AND TAILOR MADE… BROKE UP. WTF. Okay, I know I was rooting for Buddha during season 2 and all, but I eventually came to understand that New York and Tailor Made were a match made in reality tv heaven. Who the fuck is she going to boss around now? Other than her assistant, of course. Who is she going to get drunk with and bat her ten pound eyelashes at and giggle at like a schoolgirl on ecstasy? Who is going to carry her around the beach so she doesn’t have to get her Manolo Blahniks (you don’t even want to know how I spelled that before I googled it) messed up by the sand? ONLY TAILOR MADE WAS SUITED FOR THESE CHORES. Shit, he’s almost as much of a princess as she is, he should know what the fuck is up.
Anyway. She has now effectively starred on five reality tv shows. Five. I ASPIRE TO BE THAT FABULOUS. The only woman on reality tv that is half as fierce as New York is all the time was Janice Dickinson, and she got kicked off of America’s Next Top Model for being such a badass. That is POWER.
Do you guys remember when Pumkin spat on her? That bitch fight was perfect. Oooh I wouldn’t fancy getting any of my bodily fluids on Miss. Pollard at any time, given her reaction to the spitting incident. Hot damn. Can you say harpy? What a wonderful harpy.
And then there’s the wondrous telephone fight she had with Tailor Made, when they were barely still together. WordPress is being a bitch, so here’s a link: New York vs. Tailor Made: EPIC BATTLE. Really? That poor little man child. He better get down on his knees and suck New York’s dick if he wants her to take him back. He better sacrifice his left testicle to her. He needs to personally braid her weaves into her golden hair and shine her shoes with his own spit. I mean, dayum.
New York, New York… for the chance to have lunch with you I would give my left pinky toe. I really would. I would even hang out with your madre. I just love you that much.