Just this week while scrolling through various TV channels, I unfortunately landed on the show JOE MILLIONAIRE. Yep…a bunch of beautiful women “pick me dancing” for the love of two different guys.
Supposedly one is a millionaire and maybe if these women dance hard enough she will eventually win his love.
For God’s sake, was this show written and produced by a fuckwit? These guys kiss and grope all these women to eventually choose the one they want. First of all, can’t we as women make our own way in the world? Do we want a millionaire that acts like an entitled pig? I guess because we are women we need to land a man with $$$. Such bullshit! We are all intelligent hardworking women who do not need a man to provide for us. I just thought the concept was so degrading. All the women on the show watch each other making out with these guys. Trauma enducing? Sure looks like it. These women have no self-respect or self-esteem.
One guy said he felt like one of the contestants he was falling for was “too controlling”. After he said that, a big red flag poked me in the eye.
Well girls… no unicorns there, just jackasses.
Is it just me feeling that this show is so humiliating because my chump spidey senses have been on full alert? Am I overreacting?
Dear Lady Loyal,
As a chump, I can see how pick-me dance “entertainment” makes you flinchy. But it doesn’t require any special Spidey senses to conclude that reality TV shows like Joe Millionaire are humiliating. Utter debasement is the entire premise. Conquer the competition and win the prize! Spectators have thrilled to pick-me dances ever since emperors sat in coliseums. Which one of you lucky gladiators gets to go home and which one of you will be disemboweled?
Yes, those women have no self-respect, but they are at least competing honestly for their douchebags. Unlike a cheating situation in which the chump is utterly unaware of the competition and flails about trying to get the attention of a jerk they already won.
The mystery to me is why anyone thinks this shit is romantic. I must have a bevy of suitors! Fight for my hand in marriage!
What are we? Elk?
Inherent in the whole “fight for me” mentality is inequality. You Can Be Replaced, You Know. And Caesar sits on the throne, thumbs up, thumbs down.
No, no! You’re SPECIAL because you persevered against an entire gaggle of competitors! The CHOSEN one!
You’re not special — you’re a contestant. The special person is the decider. Caesar.
That’s why I think the antidote to the pick me dance is to realize you’re a decider too. No more games. You can leave the Fuckwit Thunderdome.
All the women on the show watch each other making out with these guys. Trauma enducing? Sure looks like it.
No, I don’t think so. You’re projecting depth where there is shallowness. To engage in a voluntary pick-me dance is to win a “love” that is entirely transactional. Both for the contestants AND for Caesar. Anyone who truly cared for you would not revel in your humiliation.
And, to be fair, anyone who truly cared for you would not want you solely based on your bank account either. (Although, of course, that’s the more powerful position.)
One guy said he felt like one of the contestants he was falling for was “too controlling.” After he said that, a big red flag poked me in the eye.
The whole pick me dance buy-in is that there is a PRIZE. In reality, it’s a rigged game with carnies and their marks. Is Joe a prize or is he a synthetic stuffed bear that’s going to fall apart before you leave the parking lot?
If you’re triggered by anything, it’s probably the ick factor that these guys think they’re prizes. And the manipulation that ensues to keep that fantasy alive. That their luv is so great it’s worth degrading oneself for. #winning
There are competitions in life that require a certain degree of degradation. Dodge ball. Standing in breadlines. Job performance evaluations. Love should not be on this list.
Love should begin with a foundation of mutual respect. If you think you need a begging bowl or botox, perhaps you’re in the wrong arena.
If I could corral these young women on an island somewhere I’d say:
“Brandi, Muffin, Tiffani… you can’t boob job your way through life. Hotness is fleeting and it’s an arms race (and abs, and ass…) If you put all your value into being some nitwit’s arm candy, you’re giving away your power. Could you smack Ashley into next week and would half the hot tub cheer? Sure. But that’s not who you are. You’re better than that. Besides, Braydon is not a real millionaire. He gave you a ROSE. A. SINGLE. ROSE. Not a condo. Not cryptocurrency. But a wilting one-buck flower. Demand better. DO better. Award yourself a rose and get the fuck out of here.”
Someone should give me a reality TV show.