Guilty Pleasure

Flava Flav is a clown. He isn't bright or good-looking, but he is successful and respected as a rapper. Flava Flav is a reality-TV phenom. I saw the whole beginnings of him and Brigitte Nielsen on the Surreal Life, with the bizzaro continuation thereof on Strange Love, and was left bewildered by his appeal. He looks like five miles of bad road and is dumber than a sack of hair. I guess fame and money override those glitches in many a hootchie mind.

Speaking of which, I LOVED The Flava of Love. Talk about emptying out the ghetto to cast a TV show. [Please don't think I'm racist. As anyone who lives in the ghetto knows, there's all colors represented on the block. I'm talking about a commitment to ghetto culture, only.] I just know those are the bitches responsible for Century 21's Draconian returns policy.

Anyway, their shenanigans made for excellent guilty pleasure TV. Yeeeeeeeaaaah, boyeeeee!

From the start, I loved "New York", Miss Native New Yorker. She was the only one with any personality (and how) and her diva-like behavior with the other girls was awesome to behold.

Each week another hootchie dropped out of the race to be Flav's whatever, until it was down to "New York", "Hoopz", a pretty and sporty Latina, and "Pumpkin" best described as a white trash family's embarassing cousin. "Pumpkin" spit in "New York"'s face, initiating reality TV's awesomest catfight, which lasted well past the reunion show. That stupid white girl is awfully lucky Flav's beefy bodyguard kept "New York"'s fists of fury at bay. I laughed so hard, I snorked root beer up my nose.

"Hoopz" ultimately won the contest, but the relationship is over 3 months later. Flav's cited reason? "I need a girl who gots time for me, yo."

Naturally, The Flava of Love 2 is in the works.