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About ten years ago some misguided wingnut at Fox Television thought it might be interesting, as a summer season replacement to pit young single women in a competition for one eligible bachelor who just happened, among other things, to be a millionaire. But what that wingnut didn't knowand apparently neither did Darva Conger was that her prize was actually a frog in Prince Charming's tights. No, Rick didn't Rockwell, unless you count the Pick n' Save' as Toots Shores meaning he didn't have any money.

Of course, in hindsight which never fails to be anything but 20/20 the very public scandal that followed their elaborate and televised nuptials was, and you'll pardon the expression, just icing on an already garish wedding cake. He didn't love her. He wasn't rich. She didn't love him. She just wanted his money. Then it became nasty.

Yet, no one could have predicted then that "Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire?" was North American television's foray into that new and artistically bankrupt course of programming every network currently and misguidedly considers "reality" T.V.

While we're on the subject, I'd like some clarification on just whose idea of reality, reality television subscribes to? Last time I checked, millionaires represented the upper scant 1% of mythological creatures that the American dream is built upon. Aside: there's a reason why it's called the American "dream."

The media's garden variety brainwashing takes its cue from a very old text indeed - the fairytale. It says, work hard, make sacrifices and you too can be up to your J.D. Rockafeller's in bullion, diamonds and a race horse named "Snookey". Worked for Trump, although I suspect most apprentices wouldn't want to ever again!

So how many Joe Millionaires is it going to take before audiences get tired of rich guys, would-be rich guys and backstabbing gold diggers, kittens and cougars? It's not a riddlemore like a travesty. I have two choices when I see promotional snippets of "The Bachelor" laugh or gag. A show that builds up some generically handsome son of a billionaire as this hunky, sweet derivative of Albert Schweitzer by way of Brad Pitt; hospitable, charitable, lifesaving CEO of a Fortune 500 company by day - passionate, athletic playboy, sailing off the cost of Costa Rica under moonlit skies by night.

Excuse meMr. Right? Are you for real? Apparently that question never gets asked by the scores of ravenous young women desperate clawing each other to escape the provinciality of their middle

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