Reality TV just got a lot more interesting
Oh, what it must be like to be a fly on the wall in the offices of one of these cable networks right about now.
From the time I was born until the time I was about 28, the only time I can even remember someone on TV dying was when that Mexican guy died on Sesame Street. And he was a Mexican! (Just kidding.) But in the past few weeks, stars on these reality TV shows have been dying like it’s going out of style – and not from cancer or some shit.
First there was that girl from the show where girls from the flyover states compete to blow Bret Michaels. (Back in the day they would have all gotten their turn, but there’s only so much he can do these days.) Then her husband or boyfriend or whatever went ahead and did the right thing and committed suicide. Then they found DJ AM lying in a bed in his sweatpant, with crack sprinkled all over him. I’m not even sure why they wasted taxpayer dollars doing an autopsy. Let me guess – the coroner is related to the mayor.
Then this past weekend, a guy who was on Real Housewives of Atlanta got the Derrion Albert treatment in the parking lot of a strip club down in Atlanta. As far as I know, there weren’t any 2x4s involved, but he got his head split open to the white meat none the less. He must not have seen my post suggesting that people in dangerous areas wear helmets.
At some point during my weekend-long bender, I saw on CNN where the boyfriend of one of the girls from RHOA had been killed, and I figured Sandra Rose might have something on it. Drug dealer/club promoters and obscure R&B singers in Atlanta? That’s right in her wheelhouse. When I heard the vic’s ex-girlfriend was Kandi Burruss, one of the guys from Xscape, I figured she be a bizarre-looking troll of a woman, like Tiny. But Sandra Rose had a picture of the two of them together, and she was surprisingly smokin’ for a middle aged black women. She hardly had any hair, and she’d be considered zaftig by white people standards, but what are you gonna do?
But I digress.
Word on the street is that this guy who got killed, Ashley “AJ” Jewell, was a known drug dealer (no one tell Alfamega!) and may or may not have been a part owner of the strip club where he was killed, the Body Tap. And you know how corrupt those strip clubs. I know I’ve written on a few different occasions about Sauget, IL, one of the towns around here that has a lot of strip clubs. It even says in Wikipedia that Sauget basically has no laws. If you accidentally shove your arm in a stripper (which could happen…), don’t be surprised if it gets chopped off. And not because it got stuck.
And that’s Southern Illinois. Southern Illinois looks more like a John Mellencamp video than the towns where they shot John Mellencamp videos. I shudder to think what might happen in a strip club down in the A, if you were to accidentally kill a stripper, because you found out it was a tranny. (I’ve heard trannies are rampant down there – though I refuse to believe Pastor Ma$e got tricked.) I mean, obviously this is an example of some shit that could happen to you at a strip club in Atlanta. If you’re unfortunate enough to live in Atlanta, you might just wanna stick to white strip clubs. Because of the socioeconomic background of girls in that industry, a lot of white strippers have pretty big asses anyway. Or so I’ve heard.
Anyway, the producers of RHOA should have known some shit like this could happen. I’ve never seen the show, but from what I understand, it’s a buncha insane middle aged black women and maybe one white chick who all got their money from late ’80s – early ’90s era ball players and R&B singers. Niggas like Al B Sure (who I know is somehow the father of one of Puff Daddy’s children). Obviously, these are precisely the kind of women to end up in a relationship with a drug dealer. They’ve become accustomed to a lifestyle they can no longer afford to maintain. Copies of Nite N’ Day (Al B Sure = the original Kid Cudi) aren’t flying from store shelves at the same rate as those Beatles remasters. They might not even still be on store shelves.
I heard that word went out, in the Viacom building, that these reality show producers needed to check their “talent,” so to speak. This was way back when that girl from Rock of Love turned up dead in a dumpster, as if she was some East Saint street walker. They sunk several hundred dollars into that show, and they had to stop airing it for a few weeks. Only thing is, this was at VH1, and the network that airs RHOA might be owned by one of the three other corporations that owns the vast majority of media outlets in this country. Bravo or whatever probably figured they didn’t have to worry about any of their talent turning up dead.
Paul Rosenberg, on the other hand, must have received that memo. And obviously he was the first person to have an incident, so to speak, since the memo went out. He was DJ AM’s manager, as well as the producer of the reality series in which AM, a recovering crackhead, handled a crackpipe for probably the first time since he went on the wagon. I’m gonna tread lightly here, because I made some good prostitution jokes, and I want people to be able to read them – but I wouldn’t be surprised if the death of DJ AM was what led to Eminem not being on that hottest MCs list. Think about it: Fabolous was on that list.