How to Tell if Your New Followers Are Real or Not.

For some reason, I thought my increase in subscribers was due to my new legwarmers, but alas I have learned it is something else entirely.

The Official How To Blog

You may have noticed an uptick in new followers recently. This may have led to such thinking like:

“I have finally arrived.”

“That book deal is just around the corner.”

“Maybe I don’t need that job that pays all the bills?”

This is erroneous thinking–except in my case. Seriously, you should see the number of followers I have now, and I haven’t even written anything. People are really starting to get into what I’m writing, or in this instance, not writing. I have arrived, world!

But let’s get back to you. Your new followers. There’s a good chance they are not real. How can you tell?

This is why this blog exists, and why you’re following it, like all those other real followers who began following in the last few weeks. Follow these steps to determine if you’ve found a new loyal reader or soul-crushing robot bent on your complete…

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Ready for Cancellation

It’s taken me awhile to put together a recrap of the third episode of the live-doll reality show Ready for Love. 

Rumors swirled that the show had been cancelled, but then executive producer Eva Longoria took to Twitter, saying it is moving to a new time, new night. Tim-something of The Plain White T’s joined the fray saying “Please download my song from iTunes.”

And then I had to deal with my own feelings of despair over the knowledge that I actually wasted moments of my life reading inane tweets and articles on E!

But here we are again, ready-for-lovers!

We begin our “journey” with Tim’s “journey.” Tim is referred to as “rock star” ad nauseum. That’s like calling Snooki, author of the turdpile Confessions of a Guidette, a literary giant.

Bret Michaels, another dude looking for televised love by examining multiple vaginas, is a rock star. Yes, he wears a bandana hairpiece and plays amusement park gigs, but he was a legitimate rock star 25 years ago in that shit band Poison. Tim’s band The Plain White T’s had one hit song. The Fruit of the Loom guys are more recognizable. I don’t know why I’m getting all worked up about this. The important thing is that I have wasted so much of my life and will die with regrets.

Tim plans an unannounced visit to his poon palace at 6 a.m. He jumps on the women’s beds and surprisingly is not kneed in the nuts. He wants them to leave the house sans make up (the horror!!!!). They do, and society comes crashing to a halt. They arrive at a spa, and it’s filled with all things the girlies love like make-up, shoes and transvaginal ultrasounds.

Taonayanayanaya is bummed because she has not engaged in any one-on-one time with Tim. When she gets her chance, she tells Tim he is like a book with all the pages stuck together, which sounds kinda gross. Tim’s expression indicates he feels the same. Awkward silence after his reply: “That’s interesting.” She clumsily moves onto “What’s your sign?” Tim dismisses with “I don’t believe in any of that.”

Taonynayanaya breaks down sobbing in the bathroom, wailing “I’ve been through so much!” That’s an Aquarius for you.

She ends up getting the boot at the rose garden ceremony. Lots of nonsense about “journeys” and “connections” and “this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do™” blather.

Next up is Ernesto’s journey. One of the women, Olivia, keeps crying and saying she wants to leave. Another gets brownie points from the producers by saying “She is not ready for love.”

Olivia meets with Tracy the matchmaker, and talks about her disdain of drama and negative energy even though she has been the main cause of drama and negative energy. Tracy mentions how this show is a process. I thought it was a journey. I’m so fucking confused.

Before she leaves, Olivia engages in crying fit in the living room.

She goes, and it would mean so much more if there weren’t 5,000 other people on this show so I will just leave it at “smell you later.”

Ernesto is having the women get dolled up for a fashion show because this show is trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most gender stereotypes in one television episode. The producers fly his sister in from Milan to go undercover as a style assistant to see what the women have to say about her brother. Erica treats Ernesto’s sister like something on the bottom of her shoe.

Erica tries to say she did not know why she acted like that because she normally has sunshine streaming out of her ass. At the slave auction garden ceremony, Erica is saved and some woman whose name escapes me is tearfully sent home. Cheer up, nameless person, you’ve actually won.

Ben is third, but wins first place in douchery. The show continues its dress-up theme because that’s all the ladies want, right? We want to be pinched into 14-inch heels, stuffed into sausage casings, covered in greasepaint and judged by Us Weekly. Ben salsas and presses his groin and lips against the women. His ex-girlfriend Kari is getting pissed and asks him to refrain from being a “lip slut.”

Matt asks Beth, whom he refers to as “mature” (translation: old), why she is still single. She counters: “Why are you?”

Ben answers: “Because I was in the middle east for four years, duh.” (translation: “I ain’t marrying no middle-eastern person because my brain is full-on douche.”)

Ben lip-sluts it up all over town. The matchmakers send the other women to their pods–one actually refers to it as such–while they grill Kari about her intentions. This is as exciting as the time I did laundry.

Ben decides to send home the single mother with this chestnut:

I don’t know about you, but I am ready for cancellation.

Ready for Zzzzzzzzzzz

Nothing happened on the second episode of Ready for Love.

I mean, I guess some things happened, but in the end it added up to a bunch of nothing. I was most intrigued by audience members holding up signs:

If you are unfamiliar with this new reality television show, it’s basically The Bachelor, but with three dudes of meat. There are also three matchmakers who remind me of The Fates. They choose women from binders and place them in plastic doll cases for the meat dudes’ appraisal. Like so:

Two meat dudes get to flail their meat appendages around tonight. Both dudes are completely comfortable being shirtless in their biographical videos; Ben morso than Ernesto.

Ben bores with his “fascinating” origin story. “My parents were doctors. I’m a frat boy. I worked on Wall Street. I’m comfortable being filmed continually sans shirt.” But if I continue being nonfascinated by Ben, I will miss out on the pfftt that is Ernesto’s journey.

Two of “his” women are former Miss USA contestants. This knowledge thrills the remaining contestants:

Surprisingly, some of the contestants are emotinally unhinged. One waxes fart about her spirituality, and spends the majority of the episode trying to kill one of the beauty queens:

Another expresses astonishment that she has to compete for Ernesto. . . on a reality dating show. She sulks during the extremely relevant hot tub time:

In her one-on-one time, she rambles on about the other women not picking up their pubic hair and dishes. During the matchmaker meeting, she is placed in the bottom three to go home. The dude matchmaker, who has an affinity for vests, says lady is boresville.

Ernesto dumps her, and acts as if the woman he saved from elimination should be thankful for the honor.

Ben has a former ex vying for his frat love. One of the contestants is a virgin who proffers her impending broken hymen as a gift to Ben. Another makes a “save-the-date” card for their wedding and is immediately banished to the bowels of hell. And yet another dresses up as a superhero unfortunately named “Miss Devotion.” Her power is infinite sadness.

Ben overuses “you guys” to refer to his potential wives. He confabs with a woman who has kids, and makes me uncomfortable with his “momma” talk.

His ex thinks “it sucks” that she has to compete with other women. . . on a reality dating show. Ben feels her, dawg.

He kisses a few dames; notably Miss Devotion and then sends her back to the planet Demotion. It is thrilling.

This show also has two cohosts. The married couple that is better known as Giuliana Rancic. Her husband serves no purpose.

I guess there’s that.

They Will Really Put Anything on Television

I listen to you. I do. When you say “Speaker7, please destroy the remaining wisps of soul vaper you have and recrap Splash,” I say “How high?”

Wait…that didn’t make sense. But that’s okay, neither does this show.

I’ll admit, I was a bit intrigued when I saw promos for Splash whilst watching the herpes parade that is known as The Bachelor, but even I have standards.

And then I realized I don’t.

So let’s dive into the deep-end shall we? (Get it? I don’t so tell me what just happened)

Splash Ep. 1

Please tell me what this is. I sincerely don’t know.

Celebrities are going to high-dive into a pool.

Okay I’ve got that part, but I don’t understand why.  Sadly this question is never answered in the four episodes I watched.

So who’s diving? Well I recognize Louis Anderson, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, Kendra Wilkinson and Rudy from The Cosby Show. There are six others like this “celebrity” here:

And you are who again?

I’m starting to realize that my time appearing on public access at a city council meeting might warrant me a spot as a “celebrity” on this show.

Olympic diver Greg Louganis will be coaching them. Divers Dave Boudia and Steve Foley, the Australian Simon Cowell of crappy reality diving shows, are the judges. Joey Lawrence and some woman are co-hosts.

Five “celebrities” are diving tonight. Rudy is up first. Each diver gets a personalized theme song. This may be my favorite part.

Damn girl. Rudy’s off her (imcomprehensible) but she’s (imcomprehensible) Damn girl.

We get a brief look at Rudy’s training at a public pool. For the competition, she does a handstand and falls into the pool. Damn girl, that was (imcomprehensible).

Australian Simon lets loose with this critique: “You had as much balance as a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest.” Damn boy.

Louis Anderson is up next. He’s worried because he weighs over 400 lbs. The producers are very sensitive to this issue, and that’s why they spend only seven minutes showing Louis being pulled out of the pool like a dead manatee.

Louis says he’s diving “for the troops” and starts tearing up. Jesus.

Let’s get to the song: Big Louis. Watch him take a dive from up above. Tons of fun, tons of love.

Do you have a feeling the songwriters aren’t really trying? Yeah, I don’t either. I dedicate that song to the troops.

Okay let’s wrap this up: The final three divers are Miss Alabama, a snowboarder and Kareem. Miss Alabama wins a point for saying “How am I famous? Good question.”

Miss Alabama and Rudy earn the lowest scores, but Joey Lawrence pretends the audience has a say it in too so it could be anybody’s game. This goes on for 10 minutes and then we learn the audience picked the same losers. They have a dive-off, which is less entertaining than a dance-off and slightly better than a hot-dog eating contest.

Bye Rudy. Joey Lawrence unironically utters “You had an amazing journey.”

Splash Ep. 2

The final five divers are set to compete, but Joey solemnly tells us one diver had to bow out of the competition due to an injury–not from diving, but from falling off a table at the premiere party.

He’s from that horrible Chelsea Handler Show and I don’t feel like looking up his name. His replacement is Brandi Chastain, a soccer player best known for ripping off her shirt after a World Cup victory. Fame.

I learn Drake Bell is the voice of spiderman on Disney XD. Now I just need to find out what Disney XD is and I’m golden. His song: Drake can ring my bell. That is the height of cleverness.

Nicole Eggert took a scary tumble during the dive practice, which Joey Lawrence takes great delight in showing her before her actual dive. He’s a bit of a dick.

Kendra is afraid of heights, and oddly self-aware: “I don’t know why I’m famous. I haven’t done anything.” She starts crying even before getting to the platform.

We see some tension between Kendra and Greg Louganis at practice. She drops an f-bomb when Greg questions her fears. “It’s my journey, not yours,” she sniffles. I take back what I said about her self-awareness.

What is it with these shows being related to “journeys.” Let’s get some perspective. You are being paid money to dive into a pool. You are not Odysseus taking 10 years to travel home.

Brandi and a football player get the lowest scores. Again with the nonsense about the audience’s influence and the made-up tension. Dive-off ensues. “It’s like a shoot-out at the OK corral,” says Australian Simon. I’ll believe that when someone dies.

Bye football player. I’m sad I never learned your name or your song.

Splash Ep. 3

Team diving, which means personalized team songs. Here is Brandi and Nicole’s: Yeah! We’re Team Moms! Yeah! We’re Team Moms! That must have taken weeks.

Kareem and Louis are paired up as the 10 team because they resemble the number 10.

Kendra is teamed up with snowboarder. He ruptures his ear drum on a practice dive. She expresses a desire to poop. Before their dive, Kendra bows out.

Since Kendra refuses to dive, she is eliminated from the competition. She says she will be haunted by this decision, but not by the decision to appear on the show in the first place.

Splash Ep. 4

Fuck.

Alrighty. This was promised to be “mind-blowing” by Joey Lawrence, and now I feel I can trust no one ever again. Tonight the competitors must do a somersault in their dive. There will be no dive-off, and the audience no longer has a say like it ever did before.

Greg Louganis makes Miss Alabama do the same somersault that resulted in his head injury.

She receives a low score.

Drake lies that the competition is becoming intense. He wants to be a frontrunner. Sometimes people’s dreams make me sad.

He looks peevish when Australian Simon tells him “The minute you took off, I could tell you were in more trouble than the early settlers.” Zing.

Lou has never done a somersault dive before. He’s scared, and the producers treat him with dignity as they show him struggling to sit down on the diving board so he can roll into the water.

It’s down to Miss Alabama or Louis. They paw at each other while they await Louis’s scores.

Louis loses. “This is something that’s changed my life,” Louis overdramatics. “This is not my last dive. This is my first step into a brand-new life.”

Joey Lawrence tries to pretend that next week’s episode is “death-defying.”

I will only recrap it if you demand it. Otherwise this journey ends.

Ready for Same-Old Same-Old

Ready for Love premiered Tuesday night.

This show is unlike any other reality dating show you’ll ever see, lies executive producer Eva Longoria.

Lots of dramatic music and lighting. Lots of quick cuts and editing that makes Cloverfield feel like Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope. Random reality-show dialogue ensues.

“It’s about to get real.”

“She’s messing with the wrong person.”

“Herpes! Herpes! Herpes!”

There are three “amazing” bachelors. There are three “top” matchmakers. There are two co-hosts. There are 36 women…excuse me…girls. There is the incessant use of the term girls to describe women. There are 12 drummers drumming. There are eight pipers piping. And chlamydia in a pear tree.

Co-host Giuliana Rancic and her husband Not-Giuliana Rancic say this was an “epic” search, and “we’re meeting the best of the best” of women willing to subject themselves to reality television. Not-Giuliana Rancic is the first to misuse the word “literally.” And it is “epic” and like “nothing I’ve ever seen before” except that I have.

Tonight is Tim’s quest for love. Tim is a “rock star” in the band the Plain White T’s.

In the first of 5,678 mini-biographies, Tim confesses that he’s not a stereotypical rock star in the sense that he’s unrecognizable. Tim married his high school sweetheart, but things didn’t work out because he was touring 367 out of the 365 days in the year. He’s sad, yo. See:

Tim gets to meet four women chosen for him by “top” matchmaker Amber. Giuliana explains that Tim will have to stand behind a wall and not see the four. He will have to pick three based on their personalities. I have never seen this before ever.

Wait…have I seen this before?

Nope. Never.

Amber is coaching her “girls.”

“Words and lyrics speak to him,” she amazes “Get your message across.”

Wow. I’ve been doing it wrong all these years with my set of semaphore flags.

We get Amber’s mini-biography. She says she doesn’t know how anyone meets people in clubs. “Matchmaking goes with the 21st century.” And feudal China.

And it begins. The four women pop up in boxes.

And it reminds me of something…what can it be?

Yup, that’s about right.

This is working well for Tim because his Madame Alexander Doll collection is missing a few essentials.

We get mini-biographies of the women, but they’re short because most dolls are interchangable. The French one gets a shot to show her spontaneity by spinning awkwardly in a plaza.

Tim narrows down the field and does the same thing with four women chosen by matchmaker Matt, also known as the douche with a British accent:

And Tracy, who unironically refers to herself as “the honest truth.”

The ladies must entice Tim while he only has to breathe with his lungs and eliminate waste with his kidneys. Love!

Some recite insipid poetry, sing and, unfortunately, beatbox. The nine winners get sealed in plastic and placed in a special Matchbox car collector’s case. The three losers are sucked into the bowels of hell.

One of Tim’s chosen harem is Leah, a woman he has known for six years. Leah realized she loved Tim when she heard he was to be on television. Giuliana asks about the nature of their relationship. “We had our moments that have been great,” Leah says coyly. (translation: fuck buddy)

The women are shipped UPS to Tim’s rock-star lair where they are subjected to a Plain White Zzzz’s concert.

And I have never seen anything like this on a reality dating show. Have I?

Nope. I haven’t.

The women meet with the matchmakers for “helpful” “advice” before their collective first date with Tim. Amber tells her women to “build (their) brand” whatever the fuck that means. The date entails finishing Tim’s trite love song. The matchmakers each pick one woman to share one-on-one time with Tim.

Hailey, Amber’s pick, tells an embarrassing fart story and cryingly cries that she’s happy.

Danielle, Matt’s pick, shares her cute list of 50 or more qualities her perspective mate must have.

Christina, Tracy’s pick, plays the piano and stares at him as if she wants to murder his face.

Now we’re back in the studio for the matchmakers’ critique. Amber expresses her displeasure with Hailey. “You said F-A-R-T? And that word should never be uttered by a woman on a date,” she actually says all the while holding in her 52,560th fart. Matt accuses Leah of retreading the past too much and being boring. “He knows certain parts of me,” Leah says.

“I would like him to know other parts.”

Giuliana cuts to the chase: “Did you guys fuck or what?”

Leah refuses to answer. Yup, they did.

The matchmakers each choose a woman for elimination. Hmm…a woman being eliminated from a reality dating show. Have I seen that before?

Nope.

Leah, farting Hailey and Toothy School Teacher are on the chopping block. Tim arrives. For some reason he has a quill sticking out of his lapel. It’s so…rock star? Sure, let’s go with that.

He picks Hailey to stay and she farts back to the Matchbox case. Tim, Leah and Toothy are Star-Trek beamed to some garden for the elimination ceremony, and the giant jumbotron screen goes to snow.

Tim shows his familiarity with reality television venacular by saying “This is so difficult for me.” He ends up sending Leah home with the obvious “if we were meant to be together, why didn’t we make that happen in Austin.”

Hmm. A bachelor with a little brain function.

That I have not seen.

All Hail King Jerkfry

The Official How To Blog

You’re out and about, living your life. You’re looking to post a cute and snappy status update on Facebook like “Sunday? More like Wineday, amirite ladies” when your newsfeed is suddenly inundated with updates like these:

Oh Wildlingballs! Another season of Game of Thrones has started, and once again you will have nothing to talk about at Friday’s happy hour. You don’t get HBO. You attempted the books, but the pages and pages of the various Houses were enough to make you turn to Honey Boo Boo for brain sugar.

But not all is lost. Winter isn’t coming yet. These following steps will help you carry on a Game of Thrones conversation like a Dothraki Khal with a 48-inch long braid.*

*Full disclosure: I’ve read the first two books and just started the third and have no idea what the godswood is going on half the time or who anyone…

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Gallbladder Secession From the Union

I’m losing another vestigial structure today.

Little known fact in the history of Speaker7, but a week before my tonsillectomy I had a HIDA scan. I was crammed into a tube, filled with helium and then twisted into a horse balloon for a child’s birthday party. The scan showed not only a propensity for breakdancing, but a nonfunctioning gallbladder.

For awhile, I had been experiencing what I’ve medically termed as “shitkickers”–meaning I felt the shit was being kicked out of me. I would sit up, and it was as if the skin under my ribcage was going to rip apart. I figured I’d either had hernia or was about to give birth to an alien baby à la John Hurt.

Nope. It was just my gallbladder yearning to be free. I began to grow suspicious of a romantic relationship between my tonsils and my gallbladder.

I postponed the surgery because it’s really out of style to have a breathing tube inserted twice in a season (source: “Who Wore the Breathing Tube Better?” US Weekly).

But the shitkickery continued. I remember trying on shoes when the onset of an attack started, and hoped the shoppers would politely ignore me as I crouched and gasped on the floor for a few minutes. I explained I was a foot fetishist.

This past week, it became even more apparent that we could no longer live together and one of us had to move out. Every morsel of food became the equivalent of eating a Thanksgiving-style banquet of Big Macs encased in Doritos taco shells covered in KFC grease dribblings. My abdomen turned into its own flotation device, and I told my gallbladder to find new living quarters.

So yay! Another surgery. I can’t wait to see what will go next. I’m banking on the brain.

As to be expected, Hugo is thrilled.

Oh–I’ll have a new post up at The Official How To Blog tomorrow about the Game of Thrones. I’m figuring I will be too hopped up on pain medication to promote it.