BEAUTIFUL LOSERS: "But what happens to the other 49 women?" demands the outraged gal with whom I watched Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire? "What happens to the contestants Mr. Moneybags didn't pick? The losers who were Not Good Enough on national TV? How can they ever face their friends?"
"There is a big truck waiting backstage," I tell her. "They take those gals right to the dump. Didn't you see how fast they hustled away the runners-up in their bridal gowns? Grab the clothes, rush the losers straight to landfill. You don't want a cat-fight on prime-time TV. They're saving that for Fox's When Good Brides Go Bad. Or the fall sweeps follow up, Scariest Wedding Also-Rans."
TV's Wife Lotto was the most beautiful wedding I have ever seen. I sniffled. I snuffled. I dabbed my eyes when the finalist brides paraded for Mr. Moneybags in their bathing suits. Yes, a beachwear competition! Genius! I wept like a crocodile when producers trussed five finalists into costly Designer Bridal Gowns, knowing four veils, skirts and trains would soon be covered in tears. God bless CITY-TV for bringing us Fox's Gold Diggers 2000 spectacle. Who needs a live execution now? Been there, seen that.
Part game show, part beauty pageant, Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire is, an industry pal claims, a glimpse of TV's awful future, the bottom, the pits, the dregs. A parade of similar "event" programming waits in the wings: People stranded on an island. Torture tests. Survival marathons, imported from Japan and Europe. Win a million, marry a million, pain for gain, the need for greed, how low can we go?
But what really happened after TV's bachelor millionaire chose his bride a night ago is comic. Fox's New York affiliate rides the two-hour sweeps stunt right into the news show that follows it, playing Now Who Wants to Marry A Weatherman? A grumpy meteorologist backstage at the Las Vegas Hilton, trying to joke and jolly 49 women who'd just been branded excess baggage before mothers, cousins, every old school chum. This hapless staffer chats with the dregs. If looks could kill ...
I am already working on my own spin-offs. Who Wants to Marry Dunf's RSP? Who Wants to Smell Like a Sheep Dog Any Time It Rains? And my quickie just-take-my-wallet entry, Honey Rub My Pocket. Based on what we saw on TV, if there's a decent bankroll, there will be takers. Pert, pretty, ready. Of 50 eager gals, five blondes, four brunettes and a redhead made the millionaire's final cut. And -- duh -- a blonde became his missus. Mrs. Gotcha looks like Gwyneth. He looks like Hammy Hamster.
And like that marryin' guy, I'm a busy beaver. Two hours is about all the time most sensible men have to get married. Spare us the steeplechase that lasts for months. No florists, no fittings, no endless negotiations with sulky relatives. Think of the money we'll save on drinks. Put a man in a shadowy isolation booth and march out his options in a quickie two hours, preferably before the hockey game. Lay out his bodacious buffet. Then give him the kind of discrete contestant info Fox kept tossing up on the screen to help make an intelligent choice ...
Bride wannabee #6 ... "Likes chocolate pudding and kissing."
Marryin' Miss #7 ... "Loves playing the cello. And napping with her cats."
Choose Me #8 ... "Owns more than 200 pairs of shoes."
Pretty please #4 ... "Likes candles and travelling."
Itchy gal #5 ... "Enjoys hockey and rainy days."
Luckily, none of the would-be-brides' bios mentioned guns or pistols. As pal Jim advises: "I would be a little uneasy about a woman with a pistol or assault rifle snuggling up next to my bankroll." Stick with cats, shoes, candles.
I'm not sure any man wants his wife and sister point-scoring his soon-to-be-beloved, tho I notice Mr. Moneybags' friends/judges gave a full 10 marks to the contestant asked what she'd do if she ever discovered her richer half was going to strip clubs. "I'd go with him!" she chirped. Welcome to the family, babycakes. Just take the money off the dresser. All of it. Don't hurt me.
