It's human nature to listen for the sensual skid of rubber on asphalt and anticipate that boss bang of steel. And it's human nature to slow down and look for pieces of hair and brain in the windshield, and then hope to see the twisted and broken bodies through the flames and smoke.
It's normal.
Morose, but normal.
Last night I turned on the TV. Dance Moms. In some ways it's a show about desperate horrible mothers and their super sexy seven year old daughters. And in other ways... Actually, no. That IS what it's about.
And some giant she-beast who yells at them.
I'm all about pushing the envelope on these reality shows - short of Hunger Games. Hell, we've SEEN the dead on Deadliest Catch with the bodies floating face down in the icy water. But here's the problem with Dance Moms; there are kids' lives in the viewfinder.
Yes, I understand we NEED child dancers to entertain us in life. I totally get that. Just like we need little dogs wearing pants and balancing on balls. Or cats in tiny hats that can play the piano.
Totally. Get. That.
If this show were just about the moms, I could give a f*ck. It would be like the Housewives or Kardashian shows where they've given their consent that their likeness may appear as an asshole across the universe in perpetuity. That's totally fine. They're adults. They can lie, cry, scream, fight, drink, gossip, backstab and call each other names. Don't care.
But to see a little seven year old girl in full harlot makeup and sexy bare midriff shaking her moneymaker is shameful. It just is. Even I know that.
Oh, won't someone think of the children?!
Maybe like a lot of reality shows, this is fake. Perhaps the venomous she-beast screaming at the kids is an actress. And perhaps when the little girl cries and ponders suicide because she may not make it as a dancer - she's just acting.
I don't know. It seems exploitative, in poor taste, and sad.
I can't watch it. I won't watch it.
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