What reality TV really needs is me -- 'Surviving Baker,' anybody?

By David Baker

My life changed forever the other day.

It all started out normal enough. Me, in a line, at a local grocer, buying some health food to sustain myself -- 14 packs of pork ramen noodles, a 12-pack of Milwaukee's Best Light, a pack of forever fruit Stride chewing gum and a bag of baby carrots.

Then I saw it, those five words, emblazed on the cover of some random tabloid, right below a picture of a crocodile that claims to be the reincarnation of Steve Irwin: "The Hills" may be fake.

No. It couldn't be. Picture me holding my heart and gasping, cinematic like. If a venerable reality television show like "The Hills" was fake, what was real? Was I real? Were incredible things like joy, happiness, sex, beer, thrash metal, carnivals, having exact change, celebrity DUI photos, Shakira music videos -- on pause -- and professional wrestling real?

My whole world was flipped. Up was down. Good was bad. Left was right. Joan Rivers and Barbara Walters were hot. Portia de Rossi and Scarlett Johansson were not.

I started thinking terrible thoughts, like "Cavemen" might be a good show, flannel isn't acceptable as dinner party attire, Carlos Mencia is funny, emo haircuts look fashionable yet still manage to make a statement -- terrible, awful things.

I questioned my faith -- Did God really have a beard?

I questioned my values -- Were Tuesdays really not acceptable days for drinking beer?

I questioned my goals -- Is it misogynous to want to sleep with a girl from every major ethnic group?

So many questions about friendship, laughter, lust and love. But mostly about love, and the appropriate way to find it.

Before this reality-TV-may-not-be-real bombshell was dropped on my unsuspecting mental state, I was convinced it was OK to go the Flavored Rock Shot of Love way about finding my soulmate. I even went as far as to wear a digital clock radio around my neck -- using the cord as a chain -- and wearing a brightly colored lady's bathrobe for a week. I failed at least three tests that week because all I could think to put down for an answer was "Yeah boy."

After such a commitment to irrational behavior, it was hard for me to wrap my head around a concept like fake reality TV.

So I did what any red-blooded American man would do, I ingested a bunch of peyote and wandered out into nature dressed in a pink deer costume all in an attempt to sort out what was true, false and all of the above. Six hours later, the temperature had dropped substantially and a four-point buck tried to make me his baby's momma, so I got the hell out of there. But my time in the woods showed me how to remedy the situation, right the wrongs of reality TV.

You see, what reality television needs is me.

My life is just as interesting as those people on the "Real World." I could entertain people for hours with all my college-kid antics. People would be rolling on the ground with all the wild conversations. There would be drama-filled, cliffhanger endings to episodes about Pabst and Olympia beer fighting for my affection and decisions between mixed or ham breakfast burritos at Beto's.

Everybody would be enthralled as they watched me at night in my room in green-tinged night vision, like I'm a disease-free Paris Hilton. Except I'm just snoring, sucking my thumb and babbling about Power Rangers as I sleep alone in my bunk bed wearing footie PJs.

What did you think I did at night? There's no procreating in a bunk bed.

I would even be OK with having some sort of knock-off reality show, a sequel of sorts. One could be called, "Surviving Baker." And kind of like its big brother show, "Surviving Nugent," mine would feature people trying to survive a week or so with me.

But where Ted had city folk and exotic dancers, I'd have a group of freshly returned missionaries. I would put them through all kinds of twisted challenges, like root beer shotgunning competitions, text-message swearing contests and name that thrash metal band, where contestants would hear a song, name the band or have me hit them in the head with a football thrown at maximum velocity.

Or maybe we could sort of turn the tables -- I would get "MADE" into a sober, sweater-vest-wearing, tactful churchgoer who doesn't use four-letter words and has a mind that was pulled out of the gutter and onto the sidewalk of chaste, asexual behavior. The show would be filled with shots of me reading religious material, getting my mouth washed out with soap and crying because it's all too hard. But in the end you would see me, clean-shaven and in a shirt and tie, group hugging a well-dressed boy and girl, my "MADE" coaches, after attending several different religious services -- we'd want to be politically correct, of course.

Maybe I could get a show like "Kid Nation," where I basically rule a kingdom solely comprised of children. With my kid army, I would go around trying to conquer surrounding territories. I'd be like Napoleon, except taller and not French.

I'd even be OK with donning the clock radio again and giving a reality love show a chance. It could be called something catchy and appropriate, like "Baker's Bun in the Oven." That one probably wouldn't test well with audiences in the Midwest, though. I'll admit it needs some work.

Let's all be honest, though, the reality show I'm most likely to appear on is "Cops." Especially if anyone just read what I wrote.

NW
JJ