Rock of Love Bus with everyone’s favourite lady boy Bret Michaels is the kind of show that calls for a Catholic church exorcism. Middle class families have been known to vomit green over TV dinners in sleepy suburbia in front of VH1’s most greasy, amoral franchise yet. And let’s face it: the pixelated images of the contestants alone could kill an entire ward of newborns.
It's rumoured the 'Love Bus' crew wore gold plated crucifixes and ropes of garlic around their necks like warped Hawaiian leis just so the San Fernando porn poltergeists would go with Michaels back to his fuck-bus and not leech onto them. A second assistant director who alledgedly foamed at the mouth and was found with the number of the beast carved into her forehead could only be cured of her affliction by a Priest with a set of sharp gynalogical tools a fortnight later after she was found wandering around a Mexican shanty town with a new set of silicone “fun bags” and a counterfiet YSL handbag.
These contestants are not ladies, folks. They’re transient men in cocktail frocks. They’re truckers with venereal diseases that headed west on some remote Texan highway with a glove compartment full of latex knickers after hearing Poison’s I Want Action on late night radio and, mistaking Michaels for a Penthouse Pet, decided to head straight into the bowels of Los Angeles to find their blonde haired, blue eyed sweetheart.
All the “girls” have warped jugs so distorted that it looks as though some Compton gangbanger, high from a dose of glue and Ouzo, rammed gentically modifed watermelons under their mamamory glands in some dimly lit garage, stitched them up with their mother’s sewing kit and sent them out into the world with a new sense of trick-confience. Any guy that tells you that one of these slut muppets is “hot” is either a transexual or: a transexual.
I know second rate drag queens that have shared circle vomits over contestant DJ Lady Tribe because the very concept that this “alien inbreed” is from planet Earth and is considered a “glamour” is enough to make them ditch the tiaras for life and grow a six metre handle-bar moustache.
The New England Journal of Medical Science is even considering revising it’s 2009 edition by redifining the definitions of the human anatomy to include a new subject – the Rock of Love Bus Contestant, which, if you read the proposed terminology is described as: “a strange crossbreed of Tijuanan prostitute and WWF wrestler that somehow fused to create a dual-gender species, thanks to Bret Michaels.”
I’m off now. But just remember. There are two rules to tuning in to Rock of Love Bus. If your head spins counter-clockwise and you stab your groin with an inanimate object, your Bret’s bitch and you better call the church. If you think any one lady from the “bevy of beauties” is a “stunner” then its time to ditch the wife, the dog and the station wagon and resign yourself to the fact that your'e having a major spiritual crisis and desperately need to seek therapy on a surgeons table or alternately, if you’re a scrooge, in your mother’s suspenders for next seasons sordid auditions. I hear it’s called Rock of Love: Midlife for Men.
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