Look: I’m not some pompous, middle-aged elitist with a stick up my ass and pocket Bible around my belt. I don’t think violent video games are turning our children into vigilantes, and I think censorship is a lame cop-out for ass-whip conservatives who don’t believe in the power of free expression. I watch Tila Tequila, Celebrity Boxing, and even Cheaters. If exploiting the tired, hungry, poor, drunken, debaucherous, cracked-out, stupid, defenseless, and promiscuous among us generates ratings, I’m all for saddling up their bulbous asses and riding to El Dorado. Sex sells, and it’s always a bullish market, baby. That exposed nipple isn’t drying up anytime soon, and I applaud everyone horny enough to take their turn. But for the love of all things sensible and STD free, at least find a perky tit worth sucking on.

Former Eliot Spitzer whore and Girls Gone Wild star Ashley Dupre is in talks to get her own reality television dating show. These negotiations strike me as inevitable, and I’m not the least bit surprised she would tug while the nation’s member is still engorged. It’s not like she has any options left. Harvard Medical School isn’t taking any more applications for next year, and I hear clown college is actually more arduous than one might suspect. Her hand has already been played, and there’s a fucking queen of spades sitting next to twelve hearts in her failure pile. That’s why this rant isn’t about Ashley Dupre. It’s not even grimacing at the executives behind this future sordid mess of reality.

This diatribe is aimed squarely at the thousands of males already planning to send in audition tapes. I get it. I’ve mailed in videos for Deal Or No Deal, The Real World, and even Survivor. Everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame, and I’d never judge a cat for pouncing on his. But being famous for making out with Ashley Dupre on E! or maybe VH1 is bottom-of-the-barrel notoriety, the likes of which haven’t been seen since the Elephant Man keeled over and died or that redneck clubbed Nancy Kerrigan’s leg.

Ashley Dupre is a marginally attractive Jezebel who opened her legs for possibly the ugliest elected politician since William Howard Taft. She flashed her titties to the seediest Frat Boy this side of Arizona State, Joe Francis, on video, I might add, and even trumped up a law suit against Girls Gone Wild to try and make bank the easy way. This bimbo Bathsheba represents everything wrong with a partial generation of girls skanking it up for attention, and I wouldn’t buy her a five dollar shot to get a crack at that pussy–let alone compete for her approval against other men.

And I haven’t even gotten to the worst part. In all likelihood, none of this will even be for money. You see: if you win a reality competition, you get money. That’s why you eat horse penis or try to make a fire with human hair and drift wood. It’s all about the money. But in the words of Frank Hummell from The Rock, “There is no fucking money.” The reward is ending up with Ashley Dupre, a little trinket half the Long Island population probably passed on for free. I could head over to two dollar Tuesday at Kilroy’s tonight and find fifty more desirable women, and at least forty-seven of those ladies won’t have ever accepted money from sloppy fifty year olds going through a sexual middle life crisis. I would rather bang Pumpkin from Flavor Of Love a thousand times without a rubber than have one protected tryst with Miss Ashley Dupre. At least Pumpkin doesn’t bother putting on this classy facade, she is what she is what she is.

So, by all means, gentleman, send in those tapes. Try out for The Bachelorette, Road Rules, and Top Chef. Just don’t bother making one to woo Ashley Dupre when you’ll save yourself years of emotional embarassment and humiliation by finding her at a bar and ordering two shots of Vodka.