I’m watching So You Think You Can Dance.

I watched American Idol last night. I usually don’t watch these type of shows. I prefer my reality shows to include awkward scripted conversations between people of different generations (see: Parental Control, Date my Mom, etc.), but I’m in Maine and there is nothing to do. Ever.

I have come to one not so startling conclusion. Sexism is still going strong. As long as Paula Abdul and the dumb laughing bitch on the dance show are seated next to domineering British Men who have more meaningful opinions, we will not break away from the gender divide that holds our society by it’s very male testicle-sack. 

Right now on TV some weird looking dude is crying about how an umbrella represents his aunt because of some deep symbolism about keeping him safe. Cliche.

I love watching talented people perform their talent on stage. I can always appreciate a good singer, and I could watch b-boys pop and lock all day. Dancing is inherently sexist though. I’m not saying all dances are sexist. One of the funniest commentaries on gender roles I’ve ever seen was in a dance concert, but any dance that is set up so that there is a Man part and a Woman part lends itself to sexism. Every ballroom pair lets the male be the only voice when speaking to the judges and one couple was 23 years old and 18 years old. That age difference isn’t weird when they are just dancing together – not even necessarily weird when fucking, but they said they had been dancing together for three years. 20 and 15. That is an awkward age to be fucking, and even an awkward age to be dancing sensually together. 

The dumb laughing bitch just said: “From the second you started, I just had a smile on my face.” This is a totally useless comment. Don’t worry the Man will make useful criticism. 

I don’t think they’ve let in an ugly female yet. No. They haven’t let in a woman that wasn’t a perfect 10.

My dad started pouting about American Idol last night because the guy he liked lost. It made me happy because I often realize that I am my father’s son, but last night was not one of those times. I hope that when I’m 62 I will not be forced to frustrated vulgarity because of a reality singing competition.

Instead, I hope that I am still watching Charm School, Next, and whatever spin off of Flavor of Love is still on the air. I love watching ghetto bitches spitting in each others’ mouths or parents telling their son’s girlfriend that she’s a “dumb slut with a fat ass.” That’s worthwhile television.

There is a same sex ballroom pair, and the producers couldn’t resist introducing them with the song It’s Raining Men and showing them both coming out of the Men’s bathroom. The Brit can’t stop hiding his face and laughing. He said: “I’m certainly one of those people who likes guys to be guys and girls to be girls.” Then after asking them to dance with women during the next round had a side comment of: “Maybe you’ll like it.” I guess it isn’t just sexist, it’s also unbearably hetronormative. 

The shows I prefer to watch aren’t necessarily beacons of liberty and equality, but at least nobody gets emotional about them while watching. I just don’t like getting emotional. Emotions are for pussies, not real Men like me.