If any of you were my REAL friends, you would have stopped me 3 minutes into the first episode.
Do you remember the classic, "The Never-Ending Story?" The villan of the movie, was this fictional force that consumed everything good and pure in the world; "The Nothing." Well, yeah, this threat of biblical proportions is very tangible and comes in the form of VH-1 every Sunday night in a 60-minute drama reality show called "Tool Academy." Sadly, I live to embrace this sign of the Apocalypse. Hey, there are far worse habits to be caught up with, right? I mean, I'm not strung out on the bathroom floor, tied off with a needle hanging out of my arm (although it would probably would kill less brain cells and be easier to admit openly)!
If your not familiar, it started three weeks ago and the point of the show is to showcase 9 guys, who have only the most befuddling nicknames and redonkulous signature pick-up moves (e.g. One guy's nickname is "Matsuflex" and he brags that chicks sweat him for his "manpanties."). If any of you have ever been to a state licensed bar, dance club, BYOB house party... you know from a distance, or if you've been unfortunate, a close encounter with this breed of douchefag.
The whole kicker with the show is that each of these guys has a girlfriend and despite their relationship status, they apparently disregard them and continue to party and sleep/hookup with other chicks at will because...well... they have names like Matsuflex and rock manpanties.
Just like another other reality show Viacom does on MTV or VH-1, they have to fill the hour block with some sort of task or challenge that gets highlighted by unfortunate dialogue from each of the guys (most of them can't start or end a sentence without saying "dude") and there's a hyped-up elimination that comes at the end of the show with tons of drawn out commercial breaks and an exiting catch line (please see title of this blog). In as condense and vague as I can make it, that's what the Tool Academy is. This is what draws me to sit up at 10pm on Sundays when there ISN'T football on. I'm not proud.
My take on the whole show is that... I don't really know why I like this show. Everything I despise about the male Ed Hardy-wearing, Gotti-esque blownout hair spiking, not-now-chief,-i'm-in-the-fuckin'-zone species is showcased on this train-wreck of television. It's layed out for me, every single week, like tarot cards that are beckoning to me "You will never get this 60 minutes of your life back, you know Joe?" But i'm first in line to step up to the reality show buffet... lobster bib tied and utensils in hand. I suppose that's why guilty pleasures exist and intense therapy usually follows.
I will say though that for all the shame and denial that my newfound TV habit brings me, I get a sliver of satisfaction from watching with my girlfriend. So far, at the end of each episode (except for this past week, when she was sleeping), we find ourselves looking at each other during the credits roll, and she gushingly says "I'm glad your not a tool."
Hey, I'm glad I'm not a tool either... but that doesn't mean I'm not entitled to some hair gel and manpanties, right?
