What the f –

The premise of fboy island seems like manna dropped from the heavens by the reality-star TV gods: 3 women supposedly looking for love interact with various men, trying to discern the “nice guys” from the “f boys” while sipping wine and catching rays in summer clothing that manages to be flimsier than the show’s premise. From the show’s stupid name to the hostess who is probably being paid more than a year’s rent in the Bay Area for fame that seems to have culminated in Dancing with the Stars, this show sounds like a trashpile that could be the ultimate guilty pleasure.

And it fails to deliver on pretty much every level imaginable.

The foundation of the show is inherently flawed in that it is predicated on the male contestants self-identifying as “nice guys” or “f boys.” Make it to the grand finale, and a guy has a chance to split the $100k prize with his “lucky” lady love… or choose to keep it all for himself if he’s truly an “f boy” through-and-through. (Here is the urban dictionary link, for those, like me, who don’t use this slang term because it’s ridiculous.) As anyone who has made it past the age of 12 is aware, males who self-identify as “nice guys” rarely are, in fact, very nice. So there’s that. Since self-identification is meaningless without a decent amount of honesty and self-awareness, this beginning is an immediate flaw that stuck with me like a piece of corn between the teeth.

The contestants somehow manage to talk too much and be too boring for any non-brain dead viewer to credit anyone on the show other than the hostess with much intelligence. This idea is merely corroborated as the show continues, and self-identified “f boys” are relegated to a weird wooden jail that shows they’re either desperate to be on TV (probably true) or too dumb to read a contract they’re signing.

The women are too serious about everything, including taking weird ethical stances about not being put on a pedestal, because gosh darnit, their men don’t want to be treated like pieces of meat, and want to be in a decent relationship where they are “treated like equals.”

The producers don’t seem to be very good at their job, given that the dude who whipped a poem out of his ass at the first vote-off was, in fact, voted off.

And then, if you get to the end of the show (which I didn’t – I got too bored and traipsed off to bed and my husband, who also agrees the show was terrible but had to know how it ended told me about it), the entire thing is meaningless.

There was this one super tiny blonde girl who was absolutely infatuated with a guy who self-identified as f-boy (I don’t remember names, but, like, does it really matter? Let’s just call them Tiny Blonde and Sunburn). Like, she was just really into him. There were multiple instances where his “f boy” status was blatantly thrown in her face, from other contestants to finding out about his girlfriend, which she initially got really thrown by, but she just kept going back to him and giving him “another chance.” So finally, Tiny Blonde gets the D near the end of the series, and of course, she picks him at the end and identifies him as a “Nice guy.” And Sunburn’s all, “Nah, thanks for the memories, but like, don’t really care. Gimme my $100k.” And the show refuses and gives his money to charity or something.

So Tiny Blonde is devastated and Sunburn is devastated and the viewer, if he/she/they are paying attention better also be devastated because what was the point of everything just watched if the stakes laid out at the beginning of the show were always fictitious? The show did not deliver on its’ premise and should be ashamed of itself. It took an amazing fun idea and f’d it up while also managing to make a show that is not worth anyone’s time because it’s so boring. I actually ended up feeling sorry for Sunburn, because he put in a lot of time and effort and vilified himself on reality TV, and did not receive his promised monetary compensation. He may have gotten it in other ways, but there was no point in anything that had just been shown on the show, because there was no way anyone self-identifying as an “f-boy” was going to get the money they were supposedly allowed to “choose.”

Reality TV shouldn’t get to take morality stances or pass judgment, especially not in a show like this. The whole point of the show is that people kind of suck, but who wins in a battle of “nice guys” and “f boys?” The answer is, neither. All of those people were stuck in a purgatory of boring conversations that the show producers ultimately made meaningless by taking all stakes away at the end because they didn’t get the answer they wanted. (I get that they tried to send a plethora of hints to Tiny Blonde, who actually just didn’t care, but still… live with it.)

Oh, also, there’s going to be an fboy island season 2. Hopefully no one bothers to watch that one, since it’s only worth your time if you’re awaiting execution and trying to deaden your brain cells before departing from this earth forevermore.

Becoming Fearless

The world is bright.

The sun, midway in her journey ‘cross the sky,

sends warmth and light

to the meadow below,

lush with verdant, sweet-smelling grasses

and variegated wildflowers.

The nymph,

slender and young,

brunette curls trailing down her back,

espies a bloom fit for the crown she is weaving;

she plucks it, heedless of the thorns

until she feels the prick of pain,

sees the blood trickling from her finger.

The god,

looking for diversion,

espies a nymph fit for play,

and gives chase.

But fair Daphne knows how quickly a bud,

once picked,

can begin to wilt,

and how the world is

cruel and negligent

to those who are hurt and withering.

So she runs.

The mythical beings move ever faster;

he, demanding,

nipping at her heels.

She, frightened, feels

exhaustion

already causing her limbs to shake.

Why must she be so weak?

How can someone

so fair, so bright,

so full of potential,

be out of options

and powerless

so quickly?

She does what all young do,

if they can;

face red with shame,

she appeals for assistance

from her father.

The strong, possessive fingers of the divine grasp her shoulder,

and she learns that, in the face of complete terror, she screams –

with a power that seems to force Apollo to retract,

that shakes the buds resting in bushes and growing from the ground

with its volume and emotion.

But no –

it was not acknowledgement that she,

as a person with her own thoughts and feelings,

did not desire his touch

that had caused Apollo to retreat;

it was, instead, another man’s

imposition of himself upon her.

Granted, she had asked for his help.

Not realizing that he,

preferring that his daughter remain an untouched vessel

for eternity,

or at least, as long as trees live,

would cause her being to harden, thicken, and hollow,

her arms to grow lanky, darken, and sprout

thick green leaves

that Apollo, not to be thwarted of his prize entirely,

would tear from her being

as he had yearned to tear off her clothes,

and wear as a crown upon his head.

Ground suddenly unreliable,

her feet sank into the soil beneath her,

firmly entrenching her into the particular spot

on which her transformation had begun.

The sun continued to shine, until its’ journey was complete,

and Daphne drank in its rays and warmth,

spreading her branches far and wide,

secure in the knowledge that she needn’t fear

any longer.