TV's Guiltiest Pleasures

There's plenty of mind-rotting, cringe-inducing trash on TV. Outwardly, we deride and scorn it. But like everything that's truly bad for us, we can't get enough of it. Sure we hate ourselves a little more after each viewing, but what's a little guilt compared to hours of diversion and escape? Since I'm too far gone to feel guilt over television, I asked a few friends what their favorite guilty pleasures were. What did I learn? That my friends are just shameless and depraved as I am.

#3 The Real Housewives of New York

What's wrong with this show? Let’s start with the title. First, the word real. These women are about as “real” as can be manufactured out of silicon, botox, hair-extensions, lip-plumper and spray-on tans. Some day, science may develop a more lifelike model, but until then, these are fairly reasonable facsimiles. Now, housewives. You know, cooking, cleaning raising the children. It’s pretty clear these “housewives” would never do any of these lowly chores for fear of chipping an acrylic nail. After all, that’s what menials are for, right? I will admit that they are wives and they do live in (very, very large) houses, but the resemblance ends there. Finally, New York. Okay, I’ll give ‘em that one.

So, what's so great about this show? I think we love it because it makes us feel equal parts envy and revulsion. The same bipolar rollercoaster we felt watching the bitchy, pretty clique from high school. Sure we detested that group of vapid, soulless, Barbies and Kens. We also desperately wanted to be in that group. Now, not only do we get to travel in their inner circle, we still get to make fun of it. 

#2 COPS

Recognize this? Bad boys, bad boys. What cha gonna do? What cha gonna do when they come for you? Of course you do. We all do. COPS has been on for an amazing 20 years and has graced us with over 750 episodes. If it's been on this long, it must be good, right? Sure, there’s action, mystery, suspense, heroic men in blue and often, very real danger. What’s not to love?

Okay, but why do we REALLY love it? I think it's because we can’t help but feel elated as we watch some drunken, shirtless hick kissing asphault and trying to explain his way out of an arrest. We all knew that jackass and take real pleasure from seeing him finally get hauled away. Knew him? Hell, some of us dated him. Is it really wrong to take so much pleasure from such blatant schadenfreude? If it is, I don't want to be right.

#1 Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew

What makes this show my top pick for Guilty Pleasure? Easy. If you feel pleasure watching this show, you SHOULD feel guilty. This show takes celebrities in the throws of drug and alcohol addition and parades their most private and painful moments for our "education." Just how educational is it? Well, considering it's broadcast on VH1 along side such thought-provoking fare as Rock of Love, Breaking Bonaduce and Hogan Knows Best, you should get college credits just for tuning in.

In season one, celebrities like Brigitte Nielsen, Daniel Baldwin and Jeff Conaway experienced stomach-churning withdrawls, battled their inner-demons and honestly struggled for sobriety. Did appearing on the show help them? Well, out of 9 celebrities, one left after four episodes, six relapsed and one (Jeff Conaway) came back even worse for season two. This has got to be television at its ugliest. So why can't we stop watching? 

We want to believe that these people are sincere in their desire to get better. And they do show the very real dangers of drug and alcohol abuse. We know there are a hundred other places that these people should go for help before a TV show. And we can't deny that most of them are not going to make it. So when one of them makes a breakthrough or even a small victory you really feel their joy - and for at least a while - some hope. And maybe that's where the pleasure of watching really comes from. Learning that as long as we're willing to keep trying, there is always hope.

But what will we learn from next season's Sex Rehab with Dr. Drew? I shudder to think.