Reality TV reaches for new material

The scene: a network programming board room.

Executive #1: Okay...I've got a good one. Stop me if you've heard this before...Ok, so we put sixteen normal looking guys, maybe we could call them "Average Joes," on a tropical resort and set them up with a gorgeous woman. Then...as a twist, we put muscular cyborg male underwear models up against the average dudes, and then act surprised when our own 'bachelorette' picks the stud.

Executive #2: Ooh! Ooh! Speaking of Bachelorettes....let's make a show all about how this one girl, who was spurned on an earlier reality show, gets to pick a guy to stay with forever and ever. Or two weeks. But at least we can plan a wedding for them, and air that too!

Executive #1: Ah...wait, one last great idea. So we put a washed-up 80s pop star (is Tiffany available?) and a couple of record producers at a table, and have them judge people's singing skills and laugh when the singers are really bad. Then people in the audience pay money to vote on who they think the best singer is. Then we own that singer's soul for a few years in exchange for a few months of fame.

Executive #2: Um...these have all been done before? No problem, we'll just provide second-rate reincarnations of all these shows and the public will eat it up just as they did for the first few.

End Scene.

This is the sad, sad state of television today. Viewers are tortured with Average Joe 2, another version of The Bachelorette, American Idol 3, the millionth Real World and a contrived "couples" version of Fear Factor. And as sequels tend to be, all are vastly inferior to previous manifestation of the same program. Usually, with shows like Survivor, producers try to mix things up and offer new reasons for viewers to watch. However, now, they have gotten lazy and are merely throwing up clones, hoping that these same viewers will find it just as attractive.

It's no surprise then that the two latest successes in the reality television world are based on original and ingenious concepts. The Apprentice and My Big Fat Obnoxious Fianc?© are both fantastic examples of the enrapturing push and pull dichotomy that has become characteristic of reality television.

NBC's The Apprentice, also known as the "Donald Trump Vanity Hour," is a wonderful venture into the marriage of television and business. In essence, the show consists of watching numerous Type-A personalities fight amongst themselves to decide who will be the last one to hear the Donald's now infamous phrase, "You're fired." At times, the crabs in-a -bucket imagery can be tiring, but with characters like the now laid-off Sam and the soon to be pissed-off Omarosa, the show's formula works.

Each week, the all-female Team Prot?©g?© (groan...how unoriginal, thanks for nothing ladies) squares off against the all-male Team Versacorp (because they are... versatile) in a competition based on the mandatory skills to be successful in the business world. The losing team must face Donald in his board room, where one member gets the axe. The last one standing wins an apprenticeship with none other than the real estate mogul himself.

As it now stands, Team Versacorp has lost three in a row, mostly thanks to an incorrigible twit, Sam. He is essentially every group project's worst nightmare, as he thinks ten square miles outside the box and can't be reined back in. It will be interesting to see how the guys fare now that their weekly scapegoat has been sent away. With the men's competition beginning to unravel, the eight catty and aggressive women can only go so far before decapitating one of their own. Watch for the aforementioned Omarosa Manigult-Stallworth to steal the spotlight as she makes enemies with the snap of a finger.

My Big Fat Obnoxious Fianc?© has all that is wrong (read: all that is right) about reality television. Enter Randi, a beautiful, stunning doe who is about to get stuck in the proverbial headlights. She agrees to the following proposition: convince her family that she has been on a reality series, found the love of her life, will marry him in twelve days, and must ensure that her father, mother, and siblings attend the wedding. In return, she gets half a million dollars.

The catch? Her fianc?©e is, well, big, fat and obnoxious. He's Tommy Boy without the charm; Billy Madison with an extra few hundred pounds. Played by an actor, "Steve" is the whipped cream on this sundae. He is hysterically immature, making Randi's mission even more difficult. The show is bound to become even more irresistible as Steve gets to "Meet the Parents." It's not just a game any more, Focker, it's reality. Kind of.