This episode of The Real World opens with Danny talking on the phone.
He has an Always Ultra Maxi Pad with Wings taped over his left eye. He pussifies
about how he's going to press charges on whoever punched him. And then he's
going to press charges against Ric Ocasek for turning into a fly and stealing
his girlfriend from her bathtub. Who's going to drive him home tonight?
Danny also says he's scared to have surgery because he hasn't been in a hospital
since that time he had Casey Affleck's balls surgically attached to his chin.
Speaking of chins, Rachel says they should go to the Hard Rock Cafe and have
a milkshake. And then they can all jerk off on one of Stevie Ray Vaughan's
overrated fucking guitars that I'm sure are displayed there. Worst thing that
ever happened to Texas music was that shithead coming along. Now every crappy
jarhead who thinks he has the white man's blues has to play that shit fifty
times a night on every shitty bar jukebox across the state of Texas. I wish Roky
Erickson had sent a fucking zombie to eat Stevie Ray's brains back in the 1970s
before his piece of shit music had a chance to spread across this diseased
nation. Thank God for helicopters.
Danny tells Rachel that he doesn't want to go have a milkshake at the Hard
Rock because he can't bring the boys to the yard now that he's wearing that ugly
In some other part of this fucking horribly decorated
Steve-and-Edie-meet-Ikea bastard of a house, the lesser prophet Nehemiah is in
bed talking to Paris Hilton Lite about how tough it's been after only three days
for this fucking whore Melinda to carry on a long distance relationship with her
boyfriend of three years. Hell, I've gone more than three fucking days without
even thinking about masturbating before. But then I wasn't constantly
being followed around by a camera that I had to dry hump every thirty seconds.
Cut to later. All the roommates are standing in the kitchen. The doorbell
rings and numbfuck Wes who is blessedly absent from most of this episode says,
"That's a doorbell." Astounded by this technological breakthrough, everyone in
the fucking house runs to the door where they get a letter that says they're
supposed to start their new "job" the next fucking morning. Since when in the
real Real World do you get to fucking move into an all bills paid
humongous house, get all the fucking liquor you want for free, and then have a
so-called job for which you don't even have to apply and are certainly not even
remotely qualified for handed to you just because you can answer a fucking
doorbell? Then these dumbfucks have the nerve to bitch that they have to be at
this new fucking job at 9:40 in the morning. I wish that horse-faced all-night
Denny's waitress from Idaho who just found that missing kid would come kick all
these unappreciative bastards in the ass with a big dose of reality and explain
how much fun it is to work a real job where you pull a 12 hour overnight shift
making $2.15 an hour plus crappy tips to sling Grand fucking Slam specials at
creepy truckers, obnoxious drunks, and assorted pedophiles and serial rapists.
Geezus, I'm starting to fucking remember why I never watch this shit anymore.
Despite the fact that they have to be up at the crack of dawn, or 9:40 as
it's commonly called in Texas, all the roommates decide to go out drinking and
camera whoring. Well, except for Danny because he's in too much pain to go to
the bar. Wah fucking wah. Never fear though, Danny Boy, Trailer Trash Hilton
says she'll stay home so you two can listen to her Jermaine Stewart record album
collection together. And then they'll drink some cherry wine.
Melinda bitches again about how tough it's been to go without sex for three
days now. You can almost see a light bulb turn on over Danny's head, but
unfortunately there seems to be some faulty wiring up there. Kinda like my
fucking garage den. I never should have let my drunk uncle Cletus talk me into
letting him do the electrical and plumbing work in exchange for a case of Miller
High Life. Now every time I flush the toilet, my Clapper turns the goddamn lava
"So it's rough going without sex, huh?" Danny finally gets the balls to ask.
"Yeah," the Walking Sperm Receptacle says, "I was just like laying here like
thinking, ‘Should I just like start humping the bed or like what should I do?'"
Yeah, I'm sure that after three whole fucking days without getting laid your
cooze is rustier than Uncle Jesse's abadoned bootleg Robitussin still.
Johanna and her Brian Setzer bangs says that she really thinks Melinda and
Danny have a bond. Yeah, it's called matching Valtrex prescriptions for their
recurring herpes outbreaks.
You know one of the fucking things that bothers me most about all these
fucking reality shows nowadays is that no one on these shows seems to understand
the concept of talking in the past tense when they're being interviewed
one-on-one about something that has already taken place. Like right now . . .
they're in the middle of a shot of Danny and Melinda dry humping and then all of
a sudden they cut to an obviously-later interview of Danny where he's talking
about the dry humping as if it was fucking happening right then. Like the
fucking asshat producers just fucking pulled Danny out of bed with a raging case
of blue balls and made him talk for fifteen minutes about what he was doing
before throwing him back into the arms of the Sperm Chuggin' Monkey. Which
incidentally is the name of the bar where the other four retards are doing the
white man dance while MC Skat Kat Nehemiah raps onstage about how Paula Abdul
makes the bed and he steals the covers. Two fucking steps forward, two steps
Unfortunately, just as Danny was about to put his little Matt Damon into
Melinda's gaping Minnie Driver, the rest of the roommates get home from the
Chuggin' Monkey. Coitus interruptus is achieved when Wes for some fucking reason
walks into Melinda's bedroom and says, "I thought it was a bowling pin." At
least that's what my closed captioning reported.
After the commercial, the clock on the microwave says it's 9:34. Luckily the
cab is out front so there's no way they should be late to their new job. I mean
it's not like there's any fucking traffic jams at all in a town like Austin with
a population of 650,000 where the streets and highways were built thirty years
ago for a town of 75,000 and have never caught up. Thanks a bunch, Michael
Fucking Dell and your cheap computers.
Johanna says she hopes their job will be something where they get to
entertain people because she likes performing. Maybe she could go down to San
Antonio and get a job at Sea World balancing balls on her pompadour. Turns out
their job is going to be making a fifteen minute documentary on the South by
Southwest music festival for the Austin Film Society. I'm praying that Richard
Linklater turned in his membership card when he found out the AFS did anything
to encourage these MTV jackasses to invade his home turf. But since he's now
making Bad News Bears remakes, I won't get my hopes up that he still has
The guy introducing them to their new job is John Pierson, who actually wrote
a great book on late 80s/early 90s independent cinema detailing his experiences
as a producer's rep on tons of great movies like She's Gotta Have It, Roger &
Me, Clerks and Slacker. I'm sure there'll be a great bonus chapter in
the next edition of Spike, Mike, Slackers, & Dykes on his experiences
dealing with seven self-absorbed camera fuckers with no discernible talent
picked to live on a gravy train and pretend to make a fifteen minute piece of
shit "documentary" about the most overrated self-indulgent annual week of music
business cocksucking in the Southwest.
Honored war veteran Rachel almost chokes on the three Hostess Ding Dongs she
had for elevensies when Pierson mentions he's worked with Michael Moore before.
I'm more upset about Pierson's stealing Peter Bogdanovich's eyeglasses.
Back at home, Melinda calls her serious boyfriend Jason. He answers, "Who is
this? Melinda? Oh, I thought you were your mom. She left her socks here last
night." For some fucking reason, Melinda starts crying when Jason says he was
"getting ready to write you off." Seems like a reasonable thing to do to me
since in their last conversation, Melinda cut it short after about 30 seconds
saying, "We can't talk right now because I can hear other people in the
background. How dare you have fun without me?" Unfortunately, Melinda can't go
console herself by fucking Danny because he lost his Lance Armstrong promise
bracelet the night before when he got to third base and fisted her cavernous
University of Texas film professor Paul Stekler introduces the seven slugs to
P.J. and Jenn, the two people who more than likely are the ones who are actually
going to make the SXSW documentary while the seven of them spend the next four
months getting drunk and having sex with the camera every waking hour.
Later on, Melinda decides to call and break up with Jason. He hits the
fucking nail on the head when he asks if she's interested in someone else in the
house. Melinda answers, "No, not unless you count getting dry humped by a
wannabe frat boy Pirates of Penzance extra as being interested in someone
else in the house."
Danny and Melinda have a wonderful heart-to-heart on the stairs. "I've grown
so much from being out here," she says. Danny says he's also grown at least five
inches stacked in the one week he's known Melinda. I think this is the beginning
of a beautiful friendship.
Next week on the Real World: Hell freezes over as it looks like Wes
might actually get laid. By a girl. One that's alive and breathing. Sorta.
Archive > Television > The Real World > Season 16: Austin