I got stuck watching Rock Of Love at a friend’s house the other night.

I had a difficult time keeping my food down.

First of all, I don’t care who the hell you think you are: you’re just a man and not a job interview.

Secondly, if you are willing to throw yourself into a cattle shoot of plastic mammaries and chemical tans just to audition to be some re-worked rock star’s trophy girlfriend, then you have just signed up for whatever mental abuse and strategic humiliation you get.

The distended skin of their chests barely kept itself from tearing under the strain of the unnatural orbs shoved underneath to the degree of looking grotesque. I actually thought that some of these girls were female impersonators. The high point was when a six foot tall Brazilian supermodel, disgusted with one of the show’s dozen blondes for dumping beer on her, started a hilarious catfight wherein she clocked her, smacked chips onto her face, and choked her. Immediately the other 23 girls were surrounding the melee in a flurry of legs, shouting, whining and beer. Primo entertainment.

The rejects from Rock Of Love get their own ridiculous reality circus, Charm School,  with Sharon Osborne. She forces them through a very bizarre sort of rehab good for its own laughs via high drama screaming matches over shampoo, stealing jewelry and spitting on one other. Scene of the century: uber-bimbo from hell Megan snerks a jab at Sharon about her family, resulting in instant retaliation. Before this Paris-wannabe knew it she was covered in Sharon’s drink and having her spray-tanned ass hauled off the set and onto the sidewalk … in a bikini.

I could get fanatical with the feminism whip but it’s pretty much pointless at this juncture. I used to be ferociously protective of other females. Now I just sit back and let kharma do its cleanup work. I don’t think I could stomach a guy who found that bullshit even remotely amusing or attractive.