By Michelle L. Spencer
Mammoth breasts squeezed into tiny, lace-up leather corsets. Hysterical sobbing coupled with mascara-blackened tears. The omnipresent bandana or cowboy hat accoutrement. I swore I wouldn’t become obsessed with the train wreck that was Rock of Love, Season 2. But once again, I got sucked into the abyss.
What was it about this “reality” show centered on Bret Michaels’s quest for a skank-a-licious soulmate that was so addictive? Maybe the magic was in the show’s formula:
Take a bevy of tatted-up strippers, porn stars, aspiring actresses, rocker chicks, groupies, and girls with enough baggage to fill the Poison tour bus, and put them up in the same Hollywood mansion. Most of these Look What the Cat Dragged In ladies had breast implants, augmented lips, or both. A couple of the women appeared to be post-op transsexuals. One had Peg Bundy hair. There was also a girl with a French accent. She licked chocolate off of her own faux teets and talked non-stop about how she hoped to have zex wiz Bret. Another girl was an attention-whore who, while vying for Bret’s love, was still legally married. The others immediately decided to hate her.
Give them a series of challenges where the potential is high for partial nudity and/or girl-on-girl action–from writhing around like sex-starved amputees in a music video for one of Bret’s songs, to performing a titillating peep show that showcased their best ass-ets, to tossing around the pigskin in barely-there jerseys, to guarding a baby Bret doll strapped in a stroller while getting pummeled by the L.A. Derby Dolls. (Personally, I think a Strip Spelling Bee should have been included in the mix.)
Encourage them to drink like frat boys to see if they’re cut out for the hard-partying lifestyle that comes with being Bret’s ball and chain. Of course, one of these girls got so wasted that she ended up expelling five shots of whisky, some fried chicken fingers, and most likely her birth control in a nearby trashcan. She just wanted to prove that she wasn’t sweet and innocent. Unfortunately, her aspirations of being as whorish as the others didn’t work.
Capture seemingly candid, thoughtful exchanges between the girls—like when Kristi Jo exclaimed to Missi, “I love horses. They’re so pretty!” And Missi replied earnestly, “I love horses too.”
Lastly, include numerous on-camera outpourings of emotion. In Rock of Love 2‘s final episode, the over-inflated Daisy De La Hoya wistfully cried, “I wanna win Bret’s heart more than anything in the universe. Like, I love him!” When she ended up losing him, she blathered through on-camera sobs, “I just want to curl up in a ball and eat a lot of ice cream.”
This combination of elements was probably what compelled me to waste 15 hours of my life on this show. Or maybe I’m secretly in love with Bret Michaels. Regardless, I got a little misty during last Sunday night’s season finale. I was not only surprised but also touched by Bret’s choice. From the 20 “Talk Dirty To Me” tramps, Bret chose Ambre, the 37-year-old newscaster from Chicago, as his Rock of Love. She didn’t have breast implants, nor is she a stripper or party girl. She didn’t vomit on her toddler-sized t-shirt or rub ‘ho-made French dessert on her ta-tas. Apparently, she has her act together (well, compared to the others) and is, according to the rock god who’s been with countless girls—including Pammy Anderson–an extremely good kisser. It’s TV moments like this that “Give Me Something To Believe In.”
For Bret and Ambre’s sake, I hope it works out. Then again, there is supposedly a clause in the Rock of Love contract that states that the winner can’t see Bret for six months after the final episode. This means that the likelihood of these two sharing a drunken night at Saddle Ranch with Big John and his main skeeze are slim. Oh well. Every rose has its thorn. This just means there’s a good chance that Bret will be back for more in Season 3.
Don’t expect me to watch, though.
Eh, who am I kidding?