Dan Nied's life revolves around reality television. Now he wants his piece of the pie.
I’m all antsy over The Apprentice. I’m downright smitten with Average Joe. The Surreal life took me to places I’d never imagined and, apparently, I even have a man-crush on the new Bachelor.
Yes, I am the scum of America. I am a reality TV fan. But more importantly, I’ve decided to become this country’s next great reality TV star.
I can be Puck, Richard Hatch, Erik Estrada and Omarosa al rolled into one massive ball of Midwestern white boy. I’ll have the personality of Average Joe’s Adam (with a better smile to boot), the blonde hair of Trista from The Bachelorette and maybe I’ll add a pinch of Dennis Rodman’s flamboyance from Celebrity Mole. And if I’m on Fox, I’ll throw in some of Trichelle’s sluttiness just to spice it up a bit. I’m game, give me a part.
Reality TV was made for me. I am charming, but with no verbal sense of right and wrong. I can be sedate, outgoing cheerful, gloomy or just dominant in conversation. I can pull off all the looks: fat, really fat, slightly fat or just thick and handsome. Hell, If they need a minority, I would be happy to pretend I was gay, or paint my face to look black. (“DAMN girl! That’s a big ‘ol ass!” See, I can pull it off).
But really, let’s face it, I’m not cut out for any of the current reality shows. I’m too dumb for The Apprentice. I don’t take well to the wilderness, so Survivor is out. I suppose I could tear it up on Average Joe, but I would get in a fight with one of the underwear models they bring on midway through. And, apparently, 24 is too fucking old for The Real World so MTV can kiss my ass.
No, what I need is a show devised by me, for me. I want to take it to the next level of reality shows. So network execs, listen to this surefire hit starring me: Somewhere Tropical, say, the Bahamas. Since I really would like to get some tail out of this whole thing, we’ll make it a dating show. I’ll be the prize, which should be good enough.
But there is a catch: 20 beautiful women with me. Ten are perfectly healthy, 10 are cancer patients with under a year to live. We can call it “Terminal Love”. My job is to weed out the cancer girls and pick one of the healthy ones. If successful, I split a million dollars with my lady. If I pick a cancer patient, she wins the whole million. (Well, her next of kin, at least.) Also, If you offer enough cash, say two million bucks, we can make them AIDS patients, three million for Lepers.
So any takers? Just email me. We can talk. I was made for this part.