The other night I was desperately trying to kill brain cells that had somehow survived my frequent alcohol binges. But it was 3 a.m. and there wasn’t a drop of liquor in the house. I contemplated eating some rotten apples, but I didn’t want to risk ingesting something potentially nutritious. Desperate, I turned on my television. If TV couldn’t kill my brain then nothing could.
At 3 a.m. my choices were crap, crap, crap, more crap, and infomercials.
Infomercials! My old friends. Back when I wasn’t too cool for television, infomercials were my constant companions. Most people have childhood memories of things like school and playgrounds. I have memories of infomercials. Ronco, Don Lapre, Juicers — I flipped from channel to channel, trying to relive my youth. Suddenly, as if by divine influence, a young woman with a big blue bar on her chest appeared. It was Girls Gone Wild!
The sun is setting on Western civilization, and Girls Gone Wild is Nero fiddling while Rome burns. Somehow, it has become a cultural sensation — the biggest thing in porn since Ron Jeremy’s. The Girls Gone Wild infomercial was playing at 3 a.m., peak time for masturbating 13-year-old males. I had to watch.
It starts with an introduction to our host, Crystal. From the looks of her, a better name would be “herpes”. Crystal gives her stirring opening monologue, while the Girls Gone Wild warehouse bustles in the background. Crystal then briefs us about all the wild places we’ll be going during the next half hour. Meanwhile, a bunch of depressed, underpaid, sexually frustrated workers pack soft porn into boxes.
Suddenly, some balding dude with a beer gut appears. It’s the CEO of Mantra Entertainment, the parent company of Girls Gone Wild! He drives his hot sports car up to the Girls Gone Wild jet, which is being washed by models in swimsuits with perpetually erect nipples. And then we break for a commercial.
A Girls Gone Wild commercial! Hundreds of women expose their breasts, with “Too Hot For TV!” covering their bosoms.
Our regularly-scheduled infomercial returns, and Crystal begins her tour of the “hottest frat parties with the craziest co-eds.” The screen becomes a entanglement of party foam and censor bars. Everyone is drunk, and there are enough breasts to feed all the little Catholic babies in Dublin. Crystal somehow manages to keep her clothes on.
The infomercial quickly degrades into a series of interviews with drunken women wearing soaking wet Girls Gone Wild T-shirts and vacant facial expressions.
The infomercial wasn’t over, but I had to stop watching. I had to get the tape. Fifteen minutes and an internet conection later, I had a full-length hi-res video file of Girls Gone Wild: College Spring Break on my hot little hard drive.
And I watched. Had I still been in middle school, it would have blown my mind. Instead, I’m now completly densensitized to human female mammaries. Once you see an hour of drunken women exposing their breasts, all desire to ever talk to a girl is gone. And now that I’m not spending my time thinking about women I can do productive things, like write stupid columns for a crappy rag.
Mike Sherman is a Communication senior. He can be reached at [email protected].
