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Wuh-oh. Can somebody please tell the increasingly pugnacious Brittanya that spitting on someone is not only considered unladylike, but possibly Assault?
Brittanya’s last name is, O’Campo, which could identify her as Spanish, Mexican, or Filipina–but after these crazy-ass shenanigans, I can’t help but pray she ain’t the latter. I just don’t know if I could deal with this gnarly bird being one of us one of us one of Rock of Love us.
Filed under: Assault and Battery, Brittanya, Brittanya O'Campo, Criminals, Ethnic Identificasian, Fighting, Girl Fights, Illegalities, Not One of Us, One of Us One of Us One of Us, Rock of Love, Rock of Love Bus
Some of you definitely think I’m crazy to care, I’m sure–and you’re like, “Diana, dude. That chick is obvs a sassy Latina! And why are you trying to lay claim, anyway?”
I’ll tell you, I’ve eyed the wretched faces of the poor gals on R.O.L. for three seasons now, and most of those mugs would make a baby cry (save for Jes and Brandi M.)–Brittanya is one of the very rare non-fuggles. I’d be happy to claim her. Excepting the fact that she PIERCED BOTH OF THE DIMPLES IN HER CHEEKS, THE OTHERWISE CUTEST ELEMENTS OF HER FACE, she’d be rather adorable if she’d simply crack open the Cetaphil and rinse off all of that hideo eye makeup.
Fo’ realz, I’ve kinda crossed my fingers that my Jungle Asian Eagle Eye is up to snuff and that Miss Brittanya is actually a pretty in purple Pinay, or a lady with a little Laotian in her. It’s totally possible.
Well, I thought it was possible, until viewing this week’s episode of Bus, in which Brittanya confesses during a taxing game of “R U Smarter than a Rock Star” that she “is not that smart.”
After quickly realizing that she a) R Not Smarter than a Rock Star and b) is never going to be able to answer any of the game’s brain-benders correctly, she simply ambles over to Bret in her short shorts and starts sucking his tonsils out. Heyyoo!
Not smart? Definitely not Asian. But Brittanya is, without question, a brilliant contender for Bret Michaels’ heart. Mark my words–Don’t be surprised if you see this hot bitch, whatever her ethnic makeup, in the final three.
I’ll often go on and on and on about how hateful and insulting I find the production structure of most network reality television–I choke at the incessant repetitiveness, misleading commercial bumpers, clunky, cobbled editorial choices, harsh lighting, dull casting, melodramatic music cues.
Now cable reality television, that’s a whole other story. Cable reality is either super-smart and sophisticated (like Project Runway and This American Life) or just a wonderful, cacophonous shitpile. Regarding the latter–with a lower bar for humanity and a higher bar for smut–truly awful, shitty cable reality is fucking TV GOLD.
And it is my love for TV GOLD that explains my longstanding, obsessive commitment to VH1′s Rock of Love. This is not a passive or fleeting love affair, mind you, but a full-blown, soul mate-style relationship. My eyes twinkle when peering at the house for the girls, replete with the stripper pole and the seemingly unending well of booze. I adore Poison alum Bret Michaels, whose earnestness, on-screen patience, sincerity, and french kisses are, by my behind-the-scenes confirmation, truly legit.
And the girls are simply irreplacable. They’ve got psychotic laughs, or tore-up faces, or museum-worthy circus tits, or baggage for eons–the tranniest train wrecks ever to grace the telvision screen in black leather and leopard print. Name a cast member, I’ll remember the first time she puked and her best-ever interview soundbite, just before providing the theory on why she didn’t deserve to stay and rock Bret’s world. I loathe girls like Lacey and Megan as if they had punched my firstborn child in the squishy baby face, even praying to the Fuck God that neither win the $100,000 Charm School prize in lieu of my favorite gal, Brandi M.
So it is with a specific level of expertise that I watched this week’s premiere of the third installment of R.O.L., which takes place on two (pink and blue) tour buses that chase Michaels’ rock tour across the country. My expectations were high, even though I’ve seen every insane R.O.L. episode thus far, including Charm School and all of the corresponding reunion shows– and I kinda believed that after seeing an asthma-stricken, tear-stained, post-vomit Heather chuck a ceramic plate at Lacey-in-a-grandma-sweater-and-ugly-suit’s head, I’d never be surprised again.
THE PRODUCERS HAD OUTDONE THEMSELVES.
I was actually shocked. And I couldn’t wait for more.
And then (SPOILER ALERT!), boom, Nikki and Gia were eliminated, before I could even see what trouble they could come up with next.
Goddamn asshole cable reality TV producers.