Every year the trap is laid. I am caught, a trembling bunny in a snare, left to writhe helplessly into the wee hours of the morning. I am held, like a mindless zombie, captive to the spectacle that is MTV Spring Break.
I should run. I should hide in a place where there is no television, but I cannot resist the siren call of Ananda and her serpentine bikini-clad Gorgon sisters as they whoop and writhe on the flickering screen. "How can you watch this filth?" I hear myself protest as I peer into the evil box. But the spell is cast and my voice already sounds warped and muffled as I drift into the MTV dream world. Beckoned by the hypnotically mindless party music and impish shrieks of intoxicated tanned demons, I cannot struggle against the unseen force that guides me to the couch.
Lust, disgust, awe and self-loathing tie knots in my stomach and groin as a blond vixen coats herself in sticky honey and dives into a pile of golden coins. I recoil in horror and fascination when Randy "Macho Man" Savage plays tug of war over guacamole with two fleshy nymphs. As they are launched head-first into the pit of gooey sludge, images of grease-n-cheese dripping tacos from the 'Dillo flicker through my mind. "What fascinating, horrific creatures are these," I marvel at a spiderlike fiend who contorts her nubile figure to consume grapes at unconscionable angles.
It's 3 a.m. when I raise my sore hind quarters from the couch and seek the solace of my bed, exhausted and ashamed as if I myself had just reveled in an orgiastic, crazed debauch. But there is no peace to be found in sleep, as the blinding sun of Acapulco lords over the Bacardi-soaked, frenzied circle of glistening, hormone-drunk rawkers that taunt me even in dreams. Damn you, MTV Spring Break! Damn you to Hell!
-By a disturbed Greg Bloom
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