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The real thing
Pass me the TV remote, let’s watch how those skanky inmates of Bigg Boss warm up to their new housemate, the American siren Pamela Anderson.
Pass me the TV remote, let’s watch how those skanky inmates of Bigg Boss warm up to their new housemate, the American siren Pamela Anderson.
Fetch it yourself. I am busy drafting a letter. It’s not every day I write to the prime minister.
Good grief, are you doing a Pamela Anderson? Are you supporting her asking him to ban leather?
Are you insane? I am asking to ban all reality shows. A little harmless dancing, singing and cooking I can tolerate. But from marrying to spying on your partner to allowing a flaky woman sit on judgment on personal matters on camera, I might just have a nervous breakdown. And now Pamela Anderson.
But I think it is good that she is speaking against cruelty to animals.
Please, if she feels that nature should be left to itself, she might have started with herself. After all, she is famous for a certain artificiality of body parts, not her acting. And now we have to put up with her, fake assets and all, and pay her a whopping sum in the bargain.
I suppose it could give reality a new meaning.
I am also sending a letter asking to start a new realty show for which there will be no dearth of participants from the political establishment.
Do say: The idea’s firmly implanted now. Don’t say: Let’s think big.
