Rock Of Love

Oh God. Not again.

Because we've learned nothing from the fact that Flava Flav, The Bachelor and the casualities of The Pick-Up Artist are still solo acts, VH1 is going to be producing a third Rock Of Love season. Yet another overtly sexist and vaguely misogynistic "reality" show aiming to make our lovelorn celebs more "like us". This, of course, is assuming that you consider Bret Michaels a celebrity, a claim well-worth disputing, but more on him later (can you pick him out in that photo? Because I sure as hell can't.)

So sexual inequality and bad hair aside... why do I care?

Because I absolutely lap this show up like a cat with a saucer of milk. Honestly, the whole televised train wreck is so insanely addictive that you'd be a fool not to tune in, much less turn off. The first season was on when I had first moved to California and it was kind of this American baptism by fire... which I took to like a God-fearing salamander. The premise: groupies in denial vie for the affection of one Bret Michaels, AKA lead singer of Poison, the one hair-band that not only won't quit, but continues to tour without a shred of irony. Hmm, and I just said it was the groupies that were in denial...

This season promises to be even better than the last because all of the show's, ahem, contestants are going to be - ready for this? - strippers. Yessir, they're going to go from town to town in a stripper tour bus with Mr. Poison and, um, strip their way into his heart. Presumably there will be a stripper test of sorts to separate the chaff from the other chaff. I wonder how they'll send her off...

"The harem has spoken. Please collect your pasties and exit the Shag Wagon."

I'm dying here.

(Ed's note: inspired by angilio via no ordinary rollercoaster)