Fourteen days. One clueless blonde. One hee-larious actor pulling off a con of his-own-beer-gut-sized proportions. You die in seven days when you see the ring. You die a thousand deaths when you see My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé. Ring. Hello? Fourteen days.
We're at the corner of Exposition Boulevard and High-Concept Failure Street at the end of a long death-of-culture-de-sac in Realitytown Village, USA. Pulsingly dramatic music plays as we swoop down on a stately-looking mansion replete with a long walkway and doors even Frencher than the twee accent aigu this bottom-feeding example of Armageddon sees fit to slap in its title. A voice-over from seeming nowhere gives the early indication of a godlike presence about, were God's accent that of a woman who has spent significant time in that holy Garden of Eden known as "The Jersey Shore." And I don't think I need to tell you that, historically, direct address from the supreme deity means something on Earth is in the process of going thirty-two flavors of seriously fucking wrong.
"This spectacular estate is the kind you might find on any ordinary reality show," lisps Yahweh in her infinite, jappy wisdom. We cut inside the house now to discover that the voice belongs not to S/He who created the heaven and earth, but to a woman in a smart black pant suit and a tan so deep I can hear an aloe plant in a neighboring apartment start screaming. The burnt offering juuuuuust maintains the hand-eye coordination to walk down a flight of steps inside the house, but her IQ and her SPF are locked in constant battle as she explains further, "What will take place at this mansion is anything but ordinary," her mangled pronunciation of "ordinary" somehow only spanning two syllables and reminding us that, even in a world where one no longer actually has to do anything to become famous, it's still possible to come off as a useless hack if only you're just a little worse than everyone else who sucks. That said: shut up, Loni Tan-derson. Who are you?
The faux-dramatic music is very faux and very dramatic and we get it. A cut later and we're following the progress of a slow-moving limousine approaching the house, Loni leading the parade down Exposition Boulevard, continuing, "Only moments from now, a woman named Randi Coy -- a first-grade schoolteacher from Arizona -- will walk through these doors having no idea what she's in for." Loni's voice cracks on the word "Arizona," a literalized puberty sound from the throat of the woman currently responsible for America's continued loss of its precious remaining innocence. Ain't that sweet with an accent aigu on top? Our first shot of Randi "The Wrath Of Con" Coy finds her in the back of that selfsame limo, staring out the window and trying to ignore the deafening whoosh of a billion simultaneously rolling eyes, feasting on her curious combination of greed, famewhoreishness, and naïveté. "In fact," Loni continues covertly -- cocking an arched, plucked, sculpted, stripped, waxed, treated, and penciled-in-as-an-unconvincing-replacement eyebrow at the camera -- Randi was, in fact, "selected for this show without ever being told its concept." Hey, you guys? I know that Loni's speech quirks have been somewhat distracting already in the short history of this show, but it actually sounded as if she just said that this girl allowed herself to appear on a reality show -- on Fox, the network that brought us Joe Millionaire and, far more chillingly, The Next Joe Millionaire, not to mention Women in Prison -- without knowing anything about what would become of her. Randi is a brick of dumb. Thanks for letting us know, '60s British rocker Tanfred Tann.