“The Hills” are alive with the sound of brain matter seeping out of my ears
I accidentally watched “The Hills,” and I’m a worse person for it. The only saving grace is that I was eating carbs at the time, so it’s not a total loss, and the double dose of fat-packed crunchy peanut butter and high-calorie bread might offset any long-term damage.
“The Hills” cast members include Heidi, Spencer, Brody, Jayde, Lo and Whitney, among others, which sound like names people transitioning from one gender to another might choose for themselves. That piqued my interest straight away, and I continued to watch so I, along with America, could vote a tranny off the island. That just seems to be one of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities that shouldn’t be missed. But sadly there was no voting. And no island. And no trannys (allegedly). And now that I’m putting it on the interweb, someone’s bound to steal my idea for a TV pilot about post-op transgenders’ shaky but heartwarming reintroduction to the dating world called “Trans Action.”
I’m apparently too smart to understand the premise of “The Hills.” After subjecting myself to one half-hour episode, I still have no idea whether it’s reality or scripted, nor do I have any inkling about who or what it’s about. My best guess: vapid blondes talking to other vapid blondes, often about each other or vapid things in vapid Los Angeles.
The following are a few quotes from the show:
“Oh my god! They have eggs benedict here? This is my new favorite restaurant!” I just Googled “eggs benedict,” and 549,000 hits came back. But it probably tastes really good at this place.
“We have the same work aesthetic.” I’m confused. Did she mean “ethic”?
“We’re both, like, full-on single. Yay!” I say this to my unattached friends all the time. Oh no, I’m mistaken. I don’t have any single gal pals. I’m the only spinster I know. What I meant is that I say this to my cats. A lot. Except I’m lying. I’d never say this to anyone – human or otherwise. Because it’s hands-down the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.
“That’s so weird. Isn’t it strange? That’s so funny. Weird.” … and I spoke too soon.
“You seem a little, like, uh.” Yeah, pretty much.
(Note: These quotes might not be 100 percent accurate, because Teva was in my lap and I couldn’t reach a pen. Also, I wasn’t about to put down my sandwich. It would take a heck of a lot more than this to come between me and food. Such as having my jaw wired shut. Or a natural disaster. Or global famine. Even then the cats and I likely would be in a well-stocked, lead-lined bunker fending off ravenous fools who didn’t plan accordingly, and I’d have a bumper sticker on my Prius that says, “Hands off my booty.” One day, an incredibly attractive man – so attractive, in fact, that there is a distinct possibility he used to be a woman – would show up at my door. Before he could utter one word, I’d say, “Are you here for the ‘Trans Action’ casting call?’ Bewildered, he’d say, “Huh? No.” Then I’d become increasingly suspicious that he was after my canned peas and jam, so I’d bark, “Back off, bucko. Read the bumper sticker.” He’d respond, “Oh, umm, I was going to invite you over to my fallout shelter for a glass of wine. So sorry to have disturbed you.” He’d start dejectedly walking away, and I’d yell, “No, not that booty! Don’t go!” He wouldn’t turn around, so I’d chase after him and breathlessly shout, “Follow me on Twitter!” But it would be too late. I’d retreat into my bunker and reflect on how I’d scared off a suitor by accusing him of attempted larceny and of having swapped genitalia. Again. Then I’d console myself with mint chocolate chip ice cream, but not too much, because hello, global famine. A girl’s got to save that shit for her next breakup. Or the apocalypse. Whichever comes first.)