Tag: reality shows

It’s time for the cruelest reality show on airwaves.

No. What kind of cheeseburger garbage is this? American torment technology is decades behind other hells. We’re still stuck on [Dating – Empathy + Computer Host]. That’s barely a half-Saw. Forget our pharma-sponsored hugbox, we’re swimming in international waters today.

While Survivor caved to protein entitlement, Nippon TV taped famehounds hitchhiking from South Africa to Norway. That’s not a gag, it’s daytime television set free. But Japan’s out too, since England clutches the Stanley Milgram Championship like a birthday gift from Sauron. They’ve turned centuries of imperial cruelty inwards.

Which makes Send Nudes: Body SOS special. Channel 4 canceled it after one season. The proud makers of Watch Porkers Cry and Ugly Bodies/Uglier Souls blinked. We have Channel 4’s benchmark for “too far,” with a name that spares me writing new content warnings:

The subtitle trips me up a bit. Most add a little context or artistic flair. Body SOS just leaves me with questions and dread. A slam dunk for a horror film, but this is…yeah, a slam dunk. Good job, Channel 4. Body SOS is a perfect modern Weird Tales short. The Comics Code wouldn’t approve one page, so something’s gone right.

From here, it’s all wangs and dysmorphia. Treat this article like my nudes: laugh heartily, far from your manager. If the content gets you down, remember that you’ve kept your sins off-air. You’re a modern genius. Flashes of fame are followed by long, silent rides home.

I’d sum up Send Nudes as rubes asking hacks about facelifts. But I’m a Terran mortal, squawking in monkey-language. Let’s see how the Old Gods depict themselves. Each episode features the same glossy opening:

I see. Send Nudes stars the body. That traitor.

The damn thing’s too hairy, unless it’s shedding, but likely both in the wrong places. But you’re fine with it, unless you hate lying. Or, you poor fool, you improved it. Now you own a fleshy faberge egg demanding more attention than your career, sex life, and actual health. A curse ending in Apple Watch ownership.

Everyone but Michael B. Jordan has seen the wrong mirror and segfaulted. And Jordan’s agent wants him to pull a Christian Bale to play Gumby, and then a Reverse Bale to play Idi Amin (it’s a remake). Leaving a week to train for Panth3r: Fine, Killmonger’s Back. The rogue Prince seeks redemption, but his larger, leaner, even more shirtless twin stands in the way.

Channel 4, friend of mankind, felt your pain. Your perfect, nourishing, orgasmic pain. They needed more. Send Nudes is their feast, and our deliverance.

The intro’s read by veteran host Vogue Williams. I’ll avoid hyperbole this time: Vogue Williams is a Reaper. Yes, those Reapers. The immortal race of sentient starships waiting in dark space. In earlier work, she may have seemed fun. That’s Reaper brainwashing.

You might not believe me.

Horrifying, but not quite Sovereign-tier. This sounds like a show that, with two friends, a game plan, and raw willpower, you could survive. Maybe even enjoy, if we share a diagnosis. Then there’s the complete premise.

Fun fact about life: love, mercy, truth, and justice are real. Elusive, but they make cameos. “Try before you buy,” is always horseshit. When you hear it, you’ve already been robbed. Bank apps exist to seal your account after hearing it.

That’s the level of honesty we’re working with. Saline’s the realest thing on Send Nudes. The rest is doctors lying to influencers lying to victims.

Which brings us to the case studies. I’m sorry.

Send Nudes guests occupy a simple chart.

Okay, that’s a lie for framing. I’m gunning for Trevor Noah’s spot, give me a break. An honest chart’s closer to:

The pilot opens with Steven, a part-time pornstar.

Steven enjoys his penis as a friend, but not as a coworker. Gay porn demands steroid figures without steroid side effects. It’s cold out there, but consumers don’t take that excuse. He’s still a lot of fun, and brings hints of light to the darkness swirling onscreen.

He doesn’t represent the show. I’m pairing him with Tom.

Tom also has dick problems, but his inner light is dead. He’s endured twenty-eight years with a micropenis, and doesn’t know that the worst hour is ahead. Tom’s done nothing wrong, and the punishment must be severe and total.

More importantly, Tom captures average morale on Send Nudes. Vogue Williams can sense a guest that’s cried backstage. She then gently piles on questions designed to siphon soul-fuel, as sympathetically as possible. If that fails, she sends the Geth.

The avatars are inspiredly uninspired. They evoke a generation of thoroughly tapped references. Suffice to say, Valve still made games when they looked like this. Starfield’s burning in effigy for mixing lifeless high-fidelity with cheap jank, and it stunts on this. An undergrad squinting at Tom from across the room could do better for a baggie of oregano and a smile.

It’s not the subject. Steven gets a melting Second Life screenshot.

A genuine innovation. Making a pornstar look unfuckable on international tv is a new type of malpractice. Send Nudes wants to be Snow Crash, and lands squarely in Reboot.

The same basement surgeon explains dick sorcery in both episodes. He offers genital scarring, fantastic debt, and every side effect in that horrorcore dick surgery report. And new ones, like “fatty lumps.” His suit matches.

Dr. Wakil sucks. He fades from the season as lawsuits close in.

Let’s be real: you know safe dick surgery isn’t out. When it arrives, no one will have to explain, sell, or defend it. It’ll hit the street like a crossover between Ozempic and crack. You won’t hear any other news until Russian troops reach Manhattan. Specifically Columbia Medical School, to steal our precious junior dicksmiths. If our president’s an inch below average, the end begins.

I’m serious. Open-minded vets will be booked into 2100. Dentists will need answers for “but it’s basically the same, right?” YouTube’s top videos will be “Sterilizing Scalpels,” “Stopping Bleeding,” and “Hiding a Body.” Pray that the procedure’s raw materials are eco-friendly. If fossil fuels safely inflate dicks, look for Martian real estate.

After the good doctor offers to turn a small penis into no penis, it’s time for the main event. Artisanal, farm-to-table pain. The jolt from heaven that reminds us we’re alive.

We send the nudes.

And meet the dipshits.

Send Nudes has recruited fifty of England’s most willing minds. Some are specialist activists, or Instagram warlords. Others are Brandon, an auctioneer with strong opinions on everything but silence. But everyone is after media clips. Lending their dick remodeling advice grace and restraint.

Half the guests are tag teams, like entertainers Lv and Ty. They perform classic Reverse Manzai, where both speakers are loud, clueless dickheads. You can get the Lv and Ty experience by entering a barbershop and ramming the mirror headfirst.

Comedy bushido demands I recognize the best line. Dancer/Choreographer Raheem feels the least pressure to be funny or insightful, and comes closest. He reviews Dr. Wakil’s pitch with “The only difference here is that you’re left with this weird symbol above your penis. Some ancient Ctrl+Alt+Delete.” Excellent.

Another panelist? Miss England.

They send Tom’s micropenis to Miss England. She laughs, and they show him the footage. Of Miss England. Laughing at his micropenis. I don’t follow pageants, and ratings say Tom doesn’t either. But that is a caricature of rejection. This show was produced by Slaanesh.

She says supportive words afterwards, which don’t matter. Because the second Tom stepped out of his comfort zone, Miss England laughed at his penis. A humiliation normally softened by dating Miss England, a thank you note for deluxe members, or the wildest lawsuit of the year. Tom had Vogue.

He doesn’t get the operation. Neither does Steven. For all the madness on display, no one lets a Zoom wall talk them into a dick stent. Hope lives on.

Half of Send Nudes’ victims want breast lifts, which should get old. Which should get repetitive. The same shit keeps happening.

Channel 4 has two tricks.

The first is getting graphic with the surgical footage. Any preteens hoping for their first hit of popup-free nudity will find their treasure. Alongside a half-semester of stitches, scars, and slashing.

A patient med student could make it educational. That’s certainly the mask Send Nudes wears. But Vogue is seconds away from slipping into a carnival barker’s voice. Send Nudes likes how the skin of progress feels, there are just people stuck to it. Leading to a freakshow in denial.

The second trick is nudging sympathy levels. Babyfaces are humble mothers of eight, looking for more confidence at the Bible factory. Not like those deviants on the left side of the alignment grid. To build heels, they set fringe personalities up to fail.

Take Madison, a glamour model from that Margot Robbie flick.

That’s a half-joke. Madison’s into dollification. And gets far more joy out of her digital clone than most. E.g., any.

If you don’t know about dollification, then I covered flash cartoons last week instead. I hope the Bitey of Brackenwood recap worked. In short, dollification makes chasing the Barbie look more literal. It’s bimbofication with a Michael Jordan mindset. Searching it on a Mattel network fries your computer. Dollification may have been possible before the internet, but no it wasn’t.

I’d talk shit, but my personal arc changed after Dante ordered a pizza.

Naturally, they season her segment with a micro-doc about the wildest shit they can find. One Justin Jedlicka, internationally known as “King of the Dolls.” That sounds like a title you invent with an unexpected camera in your face, but Wikipedia’s on his side. Justin’s the Gold Roger of test drive surgery, with an operation count somewhere between Human Revolution and Mankind Divided.

My point? Justin’s on the deep-space fringe of Madison’s outer limits kick. Adding him in post tilts the scale. Channel 4’s circus just needs a flying elephant and three crows I find funnier than I should. Helping guests was never on the table, but now the kayfabe of kindness is dead.

Madison’s avatars meet the masses. Lv and Ty hoot at her current setup, double hoot at a reduction, and half-hoot at an enlargement. A sentiment echoed more patronizingly by the rest of the panel. But the vote plays out differently:

Oh yeah, there’s voting. I left it out earlier, since this show has more hats than animators. But this is a democratic torture chamber. The people have a voice.

Purely advisory. If Send Nudes enforced results, the studio would’ve been raided. Though Vogue’s real body is in orbit.

Today’s vote says “Stay as you are.” With an overall tone of “For the love of God, stop.” Eight percent say to go bigger, which reminds you why democracy gets wacky after a few hundred people. Madison’s taken aback by the show of popular approval/dismay/support/horror:

Has she already reached the monastic ideal of dolldom? Are there no dragons left to slay? Madison faces a Toy Story- level crisis. Or fakes it, I can’t read people. Either way, she might stay an F-cup.

Then the show structure, community pressure, and Vogue’s gentle mind trick kick in.

Bask in the body positivity. The voting’s usually worse.

Institutionally. Only the names and knives change. Among three options, the crowd always picks the path of least resistance. As crowds do—that’s how you get incumbents older than time. For non-dolls, the choices are nothing, standard plastic surgery, and crazy shit. Door two wins. In aggregate, Send Nudes says plastic surgery is like fish or fistfighting: everyone needs a little.

I’d love to call Send Nudes an ad for surgery, or a passive-aggressive diss track. But conspiracy’s in the air, so let me be clear: the makers don’t care about anything. Hatred implies they remember us after we leave the room. When legal asked “will this show hurt people,” the showrunner blew a raspberry.

Parting thought: with this premise, did you assume Send Nudes subsidized the operation? In exchange for your pride? I sure did. Dignity has market value, and clean scalpels aren’t free. The NHS plays nicer than our demons, but half the guests booked round trips to Turkey.

The others can’t afford it. There’s no epiphany. They didn’t find a magic feather full of self-love. They just can’t pay for the tummy tuck Send Nudes spent an hour debating.

Grating.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Harvey Penguini, certified MAJESTIC MEAT by a panel of 52 British criminals.