Mrs Filthy's Real World Review

June 27, 2000

Please Love Me!

This week, my sweet peas, Melissa is man-hungry. She's practically drooling all over that Postmodern Voodoo Theme Park décor! It turns out that she just doesn't feel comfy unless some young man fixes rapt, bovine eyes upon her and neglects all other diversions, including personal hygiene. In the past, she's dated "scruffy, weird white boys," because they alone were willing to make this tremendous sacrifice. But in this glamorous environment, where is yon flannel-clad drummer? Since she's in a new place, Melissa decides she'll try another type of admirer.

Sure as sugar, Melissa has no second thoughts about propositioning a complete stranger on the streets of New Orleans. And you know, darlings, it was either this slick-haired fraternity brother, or the notorious Bucket Man. As if he had any choice, Matt the Date appears at the mansion the following day, dressed and groomed and driving a fancy-schmancy SUV. He takes her to a vintage store to buy a fluffy coat and then for a casual meal. So far, no big deal, right?

As the evening progresses, however, the sheer scale of Melissa's effort overwhelms Matt the Date. He actually looks like he's having trouble swallowing. Melissa, greedy for the Date's every glance, resorts to a loud, high-pitched voice and a blatant overuse of verbal italics, "You are so NIIICE. You're grossing me OUUT!" His nice car, his business major, his Gucci shoes are puzzlements to her. She knows that she's not his type, nor he hers, but who else will pay attention to her? Certainly not her housemates, who are already rolling their eyes at her histrionics.

The jig is up after Matt the Date's birthday party, part of which seems to occur in a retirement home bus. (My little pamplemousses, I will never understand the rich.) Melissa does her best to put on her little show, but she feels strongly that she would never truly fit into Matt the Date's social milieu. After all, she tells herself, she's not a typical champagne-sipping girl (after last week's episode, we know she's a guzzler if ever we saw one!). She broods over Matt the Date's dapper little Gucci shoes and soft hands and life of privilege until she's completely killed whatever mood might have existed. By the time they reach the hot tub, the evening, for all practical purposes, is over. And it's not their class differences that aborted the relationship, mes amis, it's Melissa's perception of their class differences. Though it certainly doesn't help that Matt the Date looks mighty goofy when he's toasted. There's nothing left to do, my dears, but make the mutually-dumping phone call.

On a lighter note, the Real World cast is now officially "employed." They'll be producing a community affairs show, called "The Real 7," on New Orleans public access television, which may be a decent gig, but doesn't get them nearly as hot as the spanking new Suburban waiting for them in the parking lot. Their boss, Elton, may be one of the tougher Real World employers to date. He freely chews out the cast members for being a half-hour late and for contributing lame show ideas; he assigns lots of homework. I have a feeling no one will be drunkenly lap-dancing with his fiancee.

Did You Know? Melissa will remain celibate for the entire Real World season.

Who's Shirtless: Danny's holding down the fort with two shirtless scenes (just think of all the wardrobe money he's saving!). Oddly enough, a non-resident, Matt the Date (a.k.a. "Frat Matt") contributes the only other topless scene.

Who Cries: Zut alors! Not a teary eye in the house. I hope this is not a trend, dearies.

Most Annoying: I have a feeling that living with Melissa would be quite wearisome. She's like a black hole, relentlessly swallowing every teensy bit of attention. But she's much more chatty.

Best Quote: Melissa, upon entering the house, beau in tow: "Is the hot tub hot?"
Danny, checking out the scene: "Are you?"

Next Week: Girls chase boys.

Want to tell Mrs. Filthy something?

This Week, Mrs. Filthy's Reading:

Borderland: Origins of the American Suburb, 1820-1939 by John R. Stilgoe

The Fermata by Nicholson Baker