Confessions of a reality TV addict

“Big scoop in the morning,” would certainly mock the sarcastic colleague Yves Boisvert, between two readings of thrilling judgments from the Supreme Court of Canada.

Yeah, well, we won’t kill the headlines with this anything but shocking reveal. It has been several years – or decades? – that I spread and butter chronicles with the dualities of Louise Sigouin, the top 1-2-3 ofTroubled occupation in Martinique or the open-closed doors of the island of love.

I love reality TV and I talk about it with the passion of Chris Tie Dye, it’s well known. What is less known is everything I don’t write in this column, out of modesty or shame, depending on my alcohol level. Because yes, my consumption of reality TV has gone off the rails. I thought I had full control of it, like any addict, but I’ve eluded it for several moons already.

The descent into hell began with The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills on Slice TV, probably the most accessible real-life drug on the market. Instantly, poof!, I was sucked into this universe of formatted bling-bling where the heroines, C-stars on the Ozempic, swallow liters of “skinny margaritas” calling each other bitch and gossiping constantly behind the backs of absentees.

I liked it all, right away: the vulgarity in the display of wealth, the smoldering fake dramas, the tastelessly decorated McMansions, the sleight of hand plots, the supremely skillful editing, these beautifully packaged shows devour each other in a mouthful.

After such highwe are looking for the next fixed and we discover, hallelujah!, that the frankness of Real Housewives is available in ten American cities. I dove head first into New York (average), Potomac (excellent), Orange County (meh!) and Miami (my favorite series this year). I haven’t boarded New Jersey, Atlanta, and Salt Lake City, luckily, because I haven’t slept since 2007. And I’m no Gregory Charles.

There are also special series, the “ultimate girl’s journeys”, where brides from different cities of the Real Housewives go on a trip together, to Thailand or Morocco, where they throw glasses of chardonnay in their faces and spray each other with insults. I’ve seen it all. I liked it all.

There in my downward spiral of abuse, my dreams all started with “previously in” and consistently ended with “later this season”. I only spoke in punchy clips, the only valid form of expression in reality TV. Only short sentences, often shouted, with an espresso martini in the right hand and an iPhone Pro Max in the left. This is the key to squeezing out as much airtime as possible from producers.

Accustomed to the creping of peroxide extensions, always posed by a hairdresser who hopes to become a star, I needed more powerful stock. The Kadarshian family, who now live on Disney+, taught me to speak more slowly and to always shake the container of my Mandy’s salad before swallowing it. Thank you Kim, Kourtney and Khloé for these precious “conseils”.

The point of no return was crossed when I was exposed to reality shows summer house And winterhousestill on Slice TV, heaven for brainless shows.

In the summer, the camera follows a group of friends in their thirties who rent a castle in the Hamptons. In winter, they settled in a Mont-Tremblant type upstart chalet, but in Stowe, Vermont.

Our friends from summer house And winterhouse throw costume parties, get drunk on cans of ready-to-drink cocktails, cause tornadoes in bars, flirt with each other and spend a lot of time, the day after, under the duvets of their beds. In short, it’s genius.

At such a low point, I tried a bunch of stuff on Netflix, never finding the buzz of my first times. in bulk, Bling Empireit’s really ordinary, just like Dubai Bling Bling, gee, don’t try this at home. I have long since taken off love is blind, Too Hot to Handle And The Circle, which end up going around in circles. In real estate, nothing comes close Selling Sunsetdo not waste time with Selling Tampa Or Selling the OCthe original poison remains the best.

Like a lobster, I feed on the slums of reality TV. And like a lobster, I wait for redemption and recognition.

Because before being sold at crazy prices in restaurants and grocery stores, lobster was considered poor food for a long time. It was only served to prisoners, servants and widows.

In the XVII^e century, European settlers on the American east coast ate it only in times of famine. At that time, the lobster, which was nicknamed the cockroach of the seas, was decomposing on the beaches, giving off a pestilential odor that was sickening for miles around.

It was not until the arrival of the railroad that lobster was transported to gastronomic capitals and elevated to the rank of luxury delicacy. Reality TV is the lobster of the 2000s. Long snubbed, she awaits her moment of glory sipping a vodka-soda, while touching up her makeup for the camera.