This show is now in its seventeenth season. Stop and think about that for a minute. It hasn't been good since Seattle, and yet here it still is. My favorite season was London. God, I loved punk rock, spiky-haired, tongueless, America-bashing Neil. And I couldn't wait to see how long it would take for him to get it on with Lars. Dear readers (are there any of you?) which do you think was the finest season? Keep in mind, nothing will compare to the hypothetical one Jeanette and I dreamed up one night: The Real World: Glasgow, a kind of super-season featuring old cast members, including the ghost of Pedro and a hybrid of Boston's Montana and her boyfriend Vaj, named Vajtana.
Anyway, I want to talk about Paula Walnuts. Do not confuse her with Paulie Walnuts, the gun-toting, prostate cancer-having, silver-templed capo of The Sopranos. Now, it is typical for your garden variety Real Worlder to have one of the following "real world issues": eating disorder, substance abuse problem, deeply troubled romantic history, depression, poor self-esteem, history of self-mutilation, unnecessarily provocative behavior. Our Paula Walnuts, however, embodies all of these fun traits! She's like the party pack!
It may sound entertaining, but it's actually totally un-funny to watch the distressingly thin Paula suffer panic attacks, pick at her skin, gulp diet pills, drink excessively, weep excessively, and moon over the boyfriend who once beat her so badly he PUT HER IN THE HOSPITAL. This is a woman who should be institutionalized, not thrown into a party house with six immature brats to be broadcast on national television. I suspect that the Bunim-Murray production company took a cue from Hurricane Katrina, as it has reached FEMA-level recklessness for the sake of riveting television. Way. To. Go.
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