Okay, I know I blogged about the tacky goodness of The Maury Show paternity tests not that long ago, but with the looming John Edwards episode being booked as I type this, I figured, what the hell, let's do it again.
Nothing motivates me more than flea market junkies on the tube, so I flipped the television over to my heart's delight so I could gear up for today's articles. First, a space-eyed gentlemen and his spit-flinging girlfriend charged that the 3 women claiming to have his children were make these erroneous allegations because they sought the charming company of Bubba. His name, by the way, wasn't Bubba, which I believe was a utter mistake on the part of his parents. Of course, each child was his and I was left dumbfounded by the divine comedy of life and this asshole's uncanny ability to procreate. Amazing!
Then comes the commercials and I stare at the blank computer page, the blinking cursor taunting my blocked mind. A few minutes pass, I've written not a word and another hapless couple takes center stage of the Maury carnival.
This time around a new mother of a 1-week-old baby girl has dragged her boyfriend, totally clueless to her prior infidelity, halfway across the country only to confess to him and the nation that the baby might not be his (a scrapbook moment, if you ask me). Of course she cries and he cusses and Maury tells both kids there's no reason to fret. He, after all, can get to the bottom of this DNA dilemma. Two cheek swaps and a day later, the results are in! It actually says that on the bottom of the tv screen.
Maury opens the prophet envelope, "In the case of the therapy-bound baby, you ARE the father!"
The young lovers leap in each other's arms, excited and apparently more in love than two people ever have been. He confessed his undying affection, she does hers and the two skip off together toward a life of boundless bliss.
And I think to myself, hy the hell are the rest of us forking over hundreds if not thousands of dollars for romantic getaways in the Caribbean or Hawaii or Venice or wherever the hell else we rush off to it reignite our passion when clearly the most romantic vacation on Earth takes place center stage at dysfunctionpalooza. I mean, shit, Maury will even fly you out to New York, pay for a gourmet meal like wings at Hooters, send some "sexy decoy" into the green room to suck face with your cheating man so you don't have to and put you two lovebirds up at a 2 star hotel. Now that's all-inclusive, Cancun!
So, listen up America, you think Sandals Resort is a love retreat? Guess again, fool. Go appear on national television, reveal secrets that will render your kid forever teased and likely unbalanced, and then you really will know what love is.