I think my frustration with the modern-day obsession with princesses has been noted, right? I fluff my feathers and squawk a bit every time I see grown women sporting clothing that proclaims them worthy not by dint of action or personality, but just by the sheer fact that some bint with a title chose to spawn, and they are the undeservingly-privileged results.

Hi. My name is Amy, and I'm watching Joe Millionaire, and yes, I know I suck.

I realize that there's a special place in hell for people like me, and that there's no such thing as pleading "But it's the only 'reality show' I've ever watched! Ever!" Claiming that exception has more in common with "But I didn't inhale!" than it does with any semblance of truth, and it gets you no free ride into any of the slightly cooler circles of hell.

Brad says that tonight I should talk about chrome bumpers.

Brad, I hate to tell you this—'cause I love you and you're my favorite Canadian and all, but you're totally and utterly full of shit. Why, again, am I letting you stay in my house?