Heene-inspired: my pitch for a Reality TV show

If you greeted the news this past week that Richard Heene's contraption held a six-year old in it, which the cable networks covered non-stop for hours, which was later found to not be true when Falcon was discovered hiding in the family attic, which later turned out to be even more untrue when it was determined that the whole thing was a hoax to garner attention for a supposed reality TV show pitch - if you greeted all of this with either disdain or indifference, then let me say to you:

You're totally missing the point.

Sure, it was despicable what that guy put his family through, especially Falcon, who threw up the following morning during interviews on at least two morning TV shows.  Sure, the guy has a history of all flash and no substance (take a peek at his appearance on Wife Swap to witness his willingness to stoop to any level for shock value).  Sure, the cable networks fell hook, line and sinker for it, demonstrating once again that "news" is fast becoming a relative term.

But think about it: before this happened, no one knew who the guy was.  Before this, none of us had a clue how to pronounce his last name.  And now he's the subject of every news network, thousands of blogs, one of the most popular hashtags on Twitter.  There's a method to the madness, folks. Which is why I've decided to follow suit and make my own sales pitch for a reality TV show.  Of course, I share this in confidence, as the element of surprise is crucial.  So just keep this to yourself, okay?  Thanks.

See, I'm thinking it's time to capitalize on perhaps the most untapped segment in the reality TV show market: ministers. Think about it. Oh, there's been a clergy or two on Survivor or Big Brother.  Maybe even a preacher's kid on MTV's Real World (they're usually the worst of the lot).  But the untapped potential for a group of men (and women) of the cloth is limitless.  Catholic priests, Baptist and Presbyterians, Methodists, Quakers, Primitive Baptists and Episcopalians, Evangelicals and Mennonite and Church of God.  Just imagine the dynamics that would ensue, long before they took off in the spaceship balloon.

You know, the spaceship balloon.  Not an original idea of course (but then, what in the reality TV show world is?)  We'd make it look all accidental, of course, like they were just taking a tour of it. They'd fire it up, just to show it off a bit, except doggone it, they'd forget to tether the bloomin' thing down.  And before you could say "Call the local TV station before 911," that balloon would whisk those ministers up in the air, all the way to the remote island.

You know, the remote island.  No 21st-century creature comforts here; no technology or electricity or plumbing....well, except for the dozens of camera crew, publicity managers, PR folks and attorneys that were there to film the show, of course.  They'd be divided into two teams with cool Biblical names like "The Jacobs" and "The Esaus." They'd have challenges to do, like who can prepare communion the fastest.  All of this would lead to what they'd call "The Inquisition," where everyone would gather around torchlight and suspenseful music would play as they voted each other off the island, one by one, all the way back to the mainland to live in the recently refurbished, over-sized mansion.

You know, the mansion.  The one the TV producers bought and fixed up for them to live in, set in some city like New York or L.A where all the action is.  They'd share every waking and non-waking moment together.  Natural tensions would break out: the Calvinists would get into it with the Arminiasts, the Baptists would poo-poo the sprinkling Methodists.  And there would be cameras in every room of the house to catch every second of it all.  There'd even be a smaller sound-proof room where they'd go to vent frustrations about other clergy - called, of course, the "Confession Booth."  All on camera, of course.  And when they weren't arguing theology or debating doctrine or wondering who swiped their KJV, they'd be preparing for the big race.

You know, the big race.  There'd be teams and they would traverse the country for a few weeks, doing all kinds of stuff.  Conducting a Sunday service on Myrtle Beach during a thunderstorm, cleaning the windows of the Crystal Cathedral in California, attending the Bible burning in North Carolina, paying a visit to the Creation Museum.  And the first team to complete all their tasks would get first dibs in the singing competition.

Except there wouldn't be singing - it'd be preaching, of course.  They'd stand on stage with microphone in hand (no notes) as a slick-looking host would tell them they're on. Afterwards, as the numbers to call or text to vote scrolled at the bottom of the screen, the panel of judges would spare no punches in their review, telling them it was too long or didn't make sense or the pews were uncomfortable.  Except for one judge who never wanted to offend, so they'd always just say that the sermon was "interesting."  The audience would vote one off the show each week, until the final performance when the last two would go at it head-to-head, the winner of which would be the first to go on the date.

Well, it wouldn't really be a "date."  It's a prospective member, you see.  Two clergy vying for one person's membership.  They'd take them out for lunch, get to know them a little.  The stakes would get higher with each episode - maybe their mother would come by for a visit; maybe something embarrassing would rise to the surface.  In the end the person would agonize on camera about who they would choose; and in a special ceremony would present the winning minister with a rose.  Or maybe a Time & Talent sheet.

And after all of this, after the dust had settled and the cameras stopped rolling, each of those ministers would return home to their respective churches and continue with their pastoral duties.  And maybe one or two would get a bit part in some movie; maybe some would provide silly commentary on the sideline at the Super Bowl.  Maybe some of those ministers would get asked to host one of the 986 reality TV shows that have existed or are currently on air. 

Sounds like a great plan, doesn't it?  Because what the world really needs these days is manufactured reality as opposed to the real reality we live in; manufactured problems and drama instead of facing up to the real problems we could be dealing with.  Because life by itself is just not interesting enough without faking to send your kid up hundreds of feet in the air in a homemade balloon in order to get your own fifteen minutes of fame.  Because it's our God-given, American right to get our moment in the spotlight, even if we drag those close to us down with us in the process. 

Besides, pitching your own reality TV show is a great reason to commission your own theme song for the show. Just ask Heene.

So the show is still a work in progress, of course.  But keep it on the down-low, okay?  Don't want the cable networks to get whiff of it too soon.

Comments

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I think I grasp your gist. Real reality is way too scary and painful. What better to hide it than faux reality shows comprised of edited anomalies featuring the antithesis of normal players.