Reality Fantasy Island
Boss, the plane the plane!
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
You are lounging on a tropical island. Daiquiri in hand you eye the beautiful women in their bikinis. One of them is eyeing you back; they walk over to you.
You strike up a wonderful conversation and find in addition to being extremely beautiful they are also extremely intelligent holding several degrees in personal hygiene and poolside apparel. Charmed by your charisma and perfectly white teeth they cannot but yield to your carnal desires.
"Where have you been all my life?" they enquire lasciviously.
"Various state sponsored institutions, for the most part,” you reply enigmatically. They smile, in a slightly confused way, but they are still overcome with sexual desire.
You walk back with them to your five star hotel room. On the way back you notice that the original inhabitants of the island now man the numerous cocktail stands and sell tacky merchandise (you make a mental note to buy a Hawaiian shirt with coconut tree motif).
You arrive at the hotel room. You sit on the balcony watching the tropical sunset filter though the emissions of the local oil refinery. The coral reef glows faintly with the radioactivity of past nuclear testing. You marvel at the deadly beauty of it all.
They take a Champagne bottle from the mini-fridge.
"Care for a drink?" the recently acquired sex-object asks with an impish grin on their face while leaning seductively in the balcony doorway.
"None for me thanks, it doesn't mix well with the anti-psychotics I'm taking," you reply. They laugh heartily at your witty reply, until they see the crazed expression on your face. They continue lusting after you however and get you a glass of mango juice instead.
You sip your drinks and flirt unrepentantly while trading amusing anecdotes of past exploits. You play footsies under the table and they admire your extra toes.
Inevitably you make your way to the emperor sized bed. You both disrobe and proceed to play "dress poker" for six hours straight. You both play to lose.
The complementary Viagra left on the pillows is consumed. You admit before coitus to being a virgin. The next few hours is consumed by inexpert fumbling. You give up and watch Brady Bunch reruns on satellite TV. They run off with the bell-boy.
You wake up screaming and curse the day you started to rot your brain with reality TV.
Too much reality is never a good thing.
"
You strike up a wonderful conversation and find in addition to being extremely beautiful they are also extremely intelligent holding several degrees in personal hygiene and poolside apparel. Charmed by your charisma and perfectly white teeth they cannot but yield to your carnal desires.
"Where have you been all my life?" they enquire lasciviously.
"Various state sponsored institutions, for the most part,” you reply enigmatically. They smile, in a slightly confused way, but they are still overcome with sexual desire.
You walk back with them to your five star hotel room. On the way back you notice that the original inhabitants of the island now man the numerous cocktail stands and sell tacky merchandise (you make a mental note to buy a Hawaiian shirt with coconut tree motif).
You arrive at the hotel room. You sit on the balcony watching the tropical sunset filter though the emissions of the local oil refinery. The coral reef glows faintly with the radioactivity of past nuclear testing. You marvel at the deadly beauty of it all.
They take a Champagne bottle from the mini-fridge.
"Care for a drink?" the recently acquired sex-object asks with an impish grin on their face while leaning seductively in the balcony doorway.
"None for me thanks, it doesn't mix well with the anti-psychotics I'm taking," you reply. They laugh heartily at your witty reply, until they see the crazed expression on your face. They continue lusting after you however and get you a glass of mango juice instead.
You sip your drinks and flirt unrepentantly while trading amusing anecdotes of past exploits. You play footsies under the table and they admire your extra toes.
Inevitably you make your way to the emperor sized bed. You both disrobe and proceed to play "dress poker" for six hours straight. You both play to lose.
The complementary Viagra left on the pillows is consumed. You admit before coitus to being a virgin. The next few hours is consumed by inexpert fumbling. You give up and watch Brady Bunch reruns on satellite TV. They run off with the bell-boy.
You wake up screaming and curse the day you started to rot your brain with reality TV.
Too much reality is never a good thing.
"
your story could be a reality TV show ... and if your brain is rotted then you most definitely can write for network TV ... 
