I don’t watch very much television ordinarily but I felt badly all weekend. Although I had to be out-and-about on Saturday, Sunday I was able to laze on the couch in an attempt to recharge enough to face the coming week, so I had the chance to check out a little TV. I saw a couple of episodes of Strange Love, the reality show following the romance of Brigitte Nielsen and Flavor Flav. That chick needs to get her some help, in a major way. I don’t know if she’s drunk, stoned, stupid, that out-of-it naturally or all of the above, but honey, when you’re on a show with Flavor Flav and he comes off as the intelligent, sane one BY FAR, it’s time to detox. And hurry up about it, you’re giving Eurotrash a bad name. Flav, buddy, as for you - I don’t know where you left your self-respect, but me, I would backhand any beeyatch that called me “Foofie-Foofie” and I’m not even IN Public Enemy.

Too exhausted even to reach for the remote and press a button, my VH1 view-a-thon continued with some show called The Surreal Life which evidently throws a bunch of people who are strangers to each other into a house together. Wait a tick! - wasn’t this already done by MTV a couple of decades ago? Oh, no, this is different, because VH1 uses celebrities. Or sort-of celebrities. Or used-to-be celebrities. I watched for a long while trying to spot a celebrity and finally made a tentative diagnosis on this one delicate pixie-looking girl whom I suspected of being a Go-Go. We got the beat, everybody! Then Mini-Me showed up but they were the only two I recognized. The rapper chick turned out to be Da Brat, whose name I knew but not because of her music - she got busted on an assault charge after a brawl broke out at a bar here in the A-T-L one time. I wasn’t there.

I watched some more and a Brady Kid turned up but I’d never have ID’d the other three without outside help: a Calvin Klein underpants model, a chick who’d won a search for the next hot supermodel and...well. Something else. I couldn’t decide what the hell it was, although it seemed to be named China Doll or Joanie, depending on who was talking to it. Fearing that a wretched fate such as an explosion in the steroid factory had befallen Erin Moran, I summoned Alan, who clarified matters: an ex-wrestler who was correctly spelled ChYna Doll. Okay. I still wanted to know what the hell it was. Alan explained that she's a chick and cited her appearance in Playboy and numerous internet references to a porn flick starring her and Sean “X-Pac” Waltman.

He totally misunderstood. I accept without question that she’s a chick - what I wanted to know was, a chick WHAT? After extensive research and consulting with a Chick Expert (a/k/a the boss, who agrees with my diagnosis), I have the answer. It’s a chick GOLEM.

Kudos to VH1 for giving some air time to a species which, sadly, doesn’t get much mainstream coverage, when they so easily could have gone the cheesy route and signed Rupaul. And good luck to them, once Glen Campbell finds out what they've done with his house. He'll come back from Galveston sometime, and then it's ON.

MONTOYA DELENDA EST!