If there’s one thing I love about Hoarders, it’s all the people on it who are fundamentally broken. And if there’s one thing I love about Intervention, then there’s a million things I love about Intervention, because that is a perfect show.
I’ve got a pretty good idea for another perfect show. See, I’m not so down on Hoarders, relative to other shows like this, because I’m not particularly into gross-out porn. We’re all unbelievably disgusting. The inside of everybody’s house is gross. To be honest, we really do all just exist together on a mundane sliding scale of How Gross Can You Go, and the answer is an unsurprising “Infinitely.”
I’m not saying the shit isn’t gnarly—oh, it is, it all is—but black holes of human filth aren’t that different from how black holes work in space (truly). Things start to get pretty similar as you approach the event horizon. Given the choice between the two, I will always pick an Intervention. But shit, sometimes you’re at the doctor’s office waiting room, and A&E’s got a marathon of Hoarders on, so what’re you gonna do? Walk in nature? Not watch?
There’s a decent wrench in Hoarders, though, that gives the show a leg up on its rival, and that’s that a good bulk of the show involves the Hoarder in their Hoard during De-Hoarding, playing an active role in the process, often as a saboteur, or straight antagonist. This is compelling. This they got that Intervention ain’t. Because I’m pretty sure that there are only, like, five episodes of Intervention that end in a home team loss (i.e., no rehab, addict wins), at a certain point in the show, you can start to feel momentum flag. The last five minutes are always more a coda, a brief breather before you dive into the next pit of hell.
Anyway, my show pitch. We know that the production’s gotta get these kids on airplanes; the whole point of the rehab is that it isn’t local, around any triggering environments or people. Sometimes we get a glimpse about how hard this can be. Sometimes these fools cause drama. And isn’t drama why we’re here? That, and the (awesome, hilarious, cringey) plights of our fellow men? We oughta have a show that’s just about the transit. An Intervention: After Hours. I call it Get This Bitch to Rehab.
Think of the escape attempts! The clawing, the scratching! The spectacle of a man in Dockers pulling full-stop dad-strength bear-hugs to restrain his tweaked-out daughter! Sign me up or sign me out. World needs this in 2016.
Biddings on the franchise start today. Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org to talk dollars. We can change this fucking world, man—that I do truly believe.
He almost got arrested in New York.
He got this close.
(I would’ve mailed him the cat.)
so my boy at work today walked up and was like “sarah, you like blueberry?” Which, yes, obviously, so then he handed me a blue can of Red Bull, which was a pretty sweet left turn. “I don’t like the blue ones,” he said. “I usually just grab them from the fridge without looking.”
“Awesome,” I said. “Thank you.” I waited til the end of the day to drink it, walking out into the parking lot, all woo hoo, look who’s on her own time sway and swagger, just slamming it. Just an open throat pour, closed eyes, let my feet fall where they may. Because after work, I mean, you gotta work off some steam, right? You gotta sweat it out a little! Time to fucking work out, you know? It’s time to hit the fuckin’ pavement at a dead sprint, bitch—it’s time to shove a little word called MOTIVATION up your ass and set it on fire. GET YOU JUMPING. GET MOVING MOTHER FUCKER.
Anyway. Went home, had an okay workout, felt like shit! Not usual. Usually I feel all seratonin’d up. Real floaty, foot loose, fancy-free. This felt like dark memories of methy comedowns, fevered shivers… night terrors—the Full Vietnam.
So there was like, 35 grams of sugar in that can, right? And I don’t typically drink my sugars. I’m team Diet Shasta. Coke Zero. Just not sugar-drink habitual, unless you count rum, which you should, but don’t. And this was it, I knew it: the Crash…
So. Following this workout I had a pleasant dinner with friends, at which I was absurdly wired, wired to the point of methy. That’s two uses of the word “methy” tonight, describing me, and things I do. What can I say? I dunno. So sue me! It’s on my mind! And in my body. I’m so full of meth right now. My lungs, my veins, the chewed up pieces in my teeth—that’s the only explanation. That’s the only thing that must’ve happened. Otherwise you’re telling me that my bodily defenses and metabolism are chickenshit enough at this point to get their fucking asses kicked willy-nilly all to shit by no more than the meager force of a single can of blue fruity non-diet regular-ass Red Bull.
I used to fucking shoot rocket fuel
youtube rabbit hole: bar fights