To the Bad Girls go the Spoils

ONE WOMAN'S QUEST FOR INFAMY

I waiting a very long time, or what passes for a long time in the mind of the termi­nally impatient. I've been waiting exactly 12 hours. The phone call I'm waiting for, sadly, isn't from the National Book Award committee or some venerable institution of higher learning at which I am vying for a coveted professorial position. It's from the casting crew of The Apprentice, for whom I recently auditioned at a dingy talent agency in downtown San Francisco. ¦

Of course the call never comes. Of cours^ I will not be the next Apprentice. Nor will I be the next Survivor or the next half of a two-person wonder team on The Amaz­ing Race. I will not even be the next con­testant on The Biggest Loser. It occurs to me now that my audition strategy was all wrong. I shouldn't have presented myself as a devoted mother, an earnest writer of obscure literary fiction, an enthusiastic teacher. Enough with the girl-next-door act. If I'm ever to have my 15 minutes of fame and my shot at public humiliation with a pot of gold at the end of the line, I should confess to the producers all the ways inj which I am bad.

Let's face it: To the bad girls go the ipoils. As it is in life, so it is in reality tele­vision. It wasn't Omarosa's fine business ;ense that landed her gigs on Extra and ^assions after Trump canned her. Nor was t Jerri Manthey's exacting execution of he downward-facing dog that earned her i playboy cover following her disgraceful exit rom Survivor. Omarosa and Jerri became amous for one reason only: They were lown and dirty, mean and nasty, the kind if girls you don't want to meet at the office ir, worse, at your husband's office party. Jmarosa and Jerri and their ilk would prob-ibly argue that their apparent reprehensi-lility is a matter of unfair editing, that in ruth they spend their spare time knitting co-friendly rice-bowl cozies for homeless nidows, but we all know the truth: These i/omen forged lucrative, if not exactly espectable, careers out of being bad.

To this end, and in advance of the next Dund of reality-television open calls, I am naking a list. In order that the list may be uickly digested and neatly summarized y the poorly paid and likely hungover pro-uction assistant who stands between me nd Mr. Burnett, it will follow the easy-to-

read bullet format. Let it be known that this list should serve as a representative but in no way exhaustive sampling of my forays into the bad.

(Note to production assistant: Should the task of vetting my application prove overly daunting, I have organized the bul­lets into categories of badness. Please note that the final category, Bad Things I Have Not Yet Done But Would Gladly Do for a Fee, is constantly expanding and very much open to suggestion.)

• For a couple of years in high school I was an enthusiastic member of an over-zealous Southern Baptist youth group. It was not beneath me to give a guy a hand job in order to persuade him to attend a contemporary Christian rock concert. My target audience: track-and-field boys. My_ message: Religion can be fun! IH

» I once worked for Dollar Dial in Knoxville, Tennessee. Under the alias Charity Strong, I sold subscriptions to Sesame Street and Popu­lar Mechanics. I bombed with Sesame Street, but when it came to Popular Mechanics I was salesperson of the month for five months

running. It might have had something to do with the Charity Strong voice-breathy, sleepy, very Southern. I was frequently known to veer from the script and more than once was called into my supervisor's office for using unethical sales techniques, which I cannot divulge here, as they form the basis of my work in progress, Get Rich Slow: A Raunchy Salesgirl's Guide to the Male Psyche. » I arrived at the initial interview for yet another telemarketing job-this one in Atlanta-without the proper identification. Unable to produce a driver's license. I prof­fered instead a wallet-size photo I'd had taken for that year's Christmas card: me in black fringe and leather, standing beside a repentant-looking Santa who had been bound and gagged. A couple of months later my boss would willingly find himself in a similarly compromised position on the floor of his office in a high-rise in Buckhead. In the interest of protecting my former boss's reputation, it should be noted that he was not wearing a Santa suit. » Speaking of binding and gagging, I own a number of items from Good Vibrations, some of which may or may not involve straps, fringe and padlocks. The male chas­tity belt is highly underrated. » Ten years ago I met an alarmingly attrac­tive man named Kevin in an orientation course for graduate students at the Uni­versity of Arkansas. For six days I tried to get his attention, to no avail. At two in the morning on the seventh day, I found myself standing outside his first-floor apartment. It was a hot night, and his bedroom win­dow was open. Because I am not one to ignore a clear instance of divine interven­tion, I climbed through the window and crawled into his bed. "Hi," he said, as if this sort of thing happened to him all the time. I suddenly felt the need to set parameters. "Let's get one thing straight." I said. "I'm going to sleep with you, but I'm not going to sleep with you." The next morning I asked if he had a girlfriend. He did. "Good," I said. "I have a boyfriend." Five years later we were married. The conundrum being, of course, that once you are a wife, you are expected to be good, but the only way you get to be a wife is by being bad.

SOCIAL BADNESS OF OR RELATING TO

MY FAILURE TO ACT AS A PRODUCTIVE

MEMBER OF THE COMMUNITY

» On a number of occasions I have fraudu­lently taken General Mills up on its Good­ness Guarantee, which states. "If you are not satisfied with the quality of this prod­uct, a prompt refund or adjustment of equal value will be made." » At the end of each semester, I tell my students that if they would like to receive my comments on their final papers, they must submit a self-addressed stamped envelope. I say this with the full knowl-

edge that most of them are either too poor or too ill-coordinated to provide a self-addressed stamped envelope, thus significantly reducing my workload.

• My cell phone has a permanent outgo­ing message that says. "This cell phone user is either out of the area or has been disconnected. Please do not leave a mes­sage unless you are Mark Burnett or Mark Burnett's assistant."

CULTURAL BADNESS. MOST OF WHICH PERTAINS TO TELEVISION

» I have been known to sit in rapt attention through entire Whitney Houston inter­views and Britney Spears exposes. I've yet to turn away in horror from a celebrity crash-and-burn story-the more drugs and bulimia, the better.

• I prefer In-N-Out Burger to any restaurant at which sprouts are featured prominently on the menu. I prefer Krispy Kreme to In-N-Out.

• I have TiVo. I've had TiVo since long before most folks even knew it existed. I'm on the lifetime plan. In the beginning I made an effort to record only art films and Front­line. These days, however, I've succumbed to my own worst tastes and can often be found scrolling through the Now Playing list, debating whether to watch Hell's Kitchen, Bewitched reruns or Vacation Home Search. » If there were only two men left on earth-Vince Vaughn and Bill Cates-and I had to procreate with one of them in order to ensure the survival of the human race, there would be no contest.

BAD BEGINNINGS. OR HOW I CAME TO BE BAD

• Kindergarten, Greystone Christian School, Mobile, Alabama, 1975. A boy named Roland sticks his hand in the fish tank, which we are not allowed to do because, according to Mrs. Smith, it will result in certain painful death for the fish. Until this point I've been considered the shyest girl in the class-so shy that I have on a couple of occasions peed on the floor rather than ask Mrs. Smith if I can go to the bathroom. But when Roland sticks his hand in the fish tank, his rebelliousness so excites me that I step forward and land a big wet one on his mouth. Roland begins to cry. This for me is a defining moment-the moment I realize the awesome power of a kiss.

» The summer of 1978. During a family trip to Six Flags Over Georgia inspired by a made-for-TV movie starring Carol Burnett, I make a sign that says help' kidnap1 and put it in the window of our Buick station wagon. I proceed to ham it up for passing cars, cry­ing and showing signs of terrible distress. My parents in the front seat have no idea what's going on. It's all fun and games until, just outside of Atlanta, a state trooper pulls us over. He won't even approach the car but instead stands back and gives instructions

for my dad to come out with his hands up. Within 10 minutes we're surrounded by squad cars, sirens blaring, guns held aloft. It turns out somebody took my plea for help seriously, and there's been an APB out on our car from Alabama to Atlanta. » 1982. Dauphin Way Baptist Church. Wednesday-night prayer meeting. I am sit­ting in the balcony with Jimmy, a blond boy whom I love. The pastor is miles away at the front of the church, praying into the micro­phone. The lights in the church are low. The choir is singing "Have Thine Own Way. Lord," and Jimmy stretches out his hand, palm up. It hovers above my lap. It occurs to me that he would like me to hold his hand, but I've never held hands with a boy before and don't know how to go about it We are supposed to be praying, but I am thinking of Jimmy's beautiful hand, tiny blond hairs just beginning to form at the base of the wrist. I am 12 years old in a church in Alabama, and I am thinking quite plainly about having sex with )immy-despite the fact that this is something I have never done before and wouldn't know how to do. The shape of his hand hovering there is enough to plunge me into erotic bliss.

BAD THINGS I HAVE NOT YET

DONE BUT WOULD GLADLY DO

FOR A (REASONABLE) FEE

• Grand larceny

• Counterfeiting

» Gerrymandering

• Anything involving Vince Vaughn and/or Benicio Del Toro

» Anything involving chocolate, preferably from Joseph Schmidt, preferably in combi­nation with bad acts to be committed with Vince Vaughn and/or Benicio Del Toro.

Should the aforementioned acts of badness not prove bad enough. I would be more than happy to provide you, Mark Burnett's pro­duction assistant, with further evidence of badness. Should you still find yourself ques­tioning my ability to capture an audience's attention with lewdness. perversity, random acts of selfishness and general bad attitude, please see the attached list of references, which include but are not exclusive to my parents, past boyfriends, in-laws, members of various law enforcement agencies and a certain former employer who. following a life-altering bout with bondage, has revamped himself, for better or worse, as a submissive. Should you remain unconvinced after review­ing the not inconsiderable supporting mate­rials that accompany my application. I offer one last, desperate incentive: I am willing and able to engage in questionable relations of the fiduciary and/or sexual variety with Mark Burnett's production assistant, provided that said assistant can provide documentation supporting his/her position of influence in the murky underworld of reality television.