No Maury

You know, I think I’ve have it up to here (just above the eyebrows!) with Maury and his eponymous show. Yes, I know I “shouldn’t” be watching this drivel, and yes, I know I “should”, at 10:00 a.m., be out doing good deeds and stuff, like teaching phonics to foreigners. But I’m not. At 10:00 some mornings, you need look no farther than my living room to find me riveted to Maury. Figuratively. Maury and I haven’t literally been riveted together since “Circus of the Stars” back in ’85, but I don’t want to get into that right now (or ever) (so don’t ask).
So, anyway. Maury. His show. Me having it up to here. Yeah. I’ve stopped watching the episodes involving belligerent teens who need boot camp (although I do like to gaze adoringly at the fine physique of the ever-strapping, ever-sleeveless D. West as he storms onto the stage to give these kids a good what for!). I’ve also stopped watching those dealing with paternity tests. I do, however, still enjoy a nice makeover show (“Guess what, ladies! You get to keep the clothes!”), and I dig seeing women with horribly long hair crying as Richard Calcasola (sp.?) of Maximus Salon, or some other scissor-wizard, lops off a few feet of filthy growth that took them ten years to grow. I also like the “Look At Me Now!” episodes, in which former geeks get to strut their “stuff” (which usually involves implants) in front of guys who spurned them in high school or girls who bullied them. Or the “secret crush” episodes … especially when the crushee doesn’t look too thrilled to discover the identity of the crushor.
And, of course, I like the episodes that involve … “special people”. I won’t go into the many “specialties”, as there are too many to name. And of course the “special people” turn out to be extra-nice and compassionate and all loving and huggy. And for the duration of the show, I think, Wow, I’m a terrible person. Here I’m complaining because I hate my manicure, and there are people out there who don’t even have hands! Once the show is over, of course, I’m running to the salon with my hands in my pockets so no one can see my hideous deformity. (I’m nice that way. I don’t want to inflict my mutancy on others.)
What I can’t stand about these episodes, however, is … Maury. I swear I can almost see him internally cringing when he has to kiss the cheek of a woman who has huge hanging skin sacs all over her face or when another woman with extreme elephantiasis (yes, that’s the proper word — it’s not “elephantitis”, which means, literally, inflammation of the elephant) lifts her skirt and reveals a 400-pound leg of molten flesh. I just don’t buy that he’s as compassionate as he likes to present himself.
You see, if he were truly compassionate about these people, he wouldn’t talk to a 15-year-old “little person” as if she were a retarded five-year-old foreigner. And he wouldn’t use them in the “Look At Me Now!” and “secret crush” shows. He wouldn’t, when someone is expecting a “hottie” to parade onto the stage, first use these “special people” as foils. He wouldn’t, for example, have a 500-pound woman come out and crush the crushee’s lap as she sat down on it, and he wouldn’t have a shirtless midget come out and do a striptease, and laugh to the point of tears on the sidelines as the audience hooted and hollered. And he wouldn’t say, when the “real” person came out, “See? This is who is here for you. You didn’t think we would do that [indicating the person who had just left the stage] to you, did you? Hoo!” He wouldn’t use these people as jokes before bringing out the real guests.
If he truly believed that the people he calls “special” are “just like you and me”, as he likes to say, he would treat them normally and speak to them normally, and not, for example, give them gifts because they’re albino. (“I just want to be like other kids!” the little girl says. “Here’s a basket of gifts!” Maury says. Because we all know all other kids are regularly presented with baskets of gifts, especially from condescending talk show hosts!)
So why do I watch at all? Why do I continue to watch, even though he shamelessly exploits his guests? Beats me. I guess I just like seeing 200-pound two-year-olds waddle out onto the stage and throw tantrums when they’re told they can’t have another plate of chicken wings for breakfast!
(And makeovers!)