When my television is turned on, which is often, I’m usually watching one of two things. As a standard-issue straight guy who played competitive sports as soon as I understood what they were, I consume a lot of professional sports broadcasts. The other half of my TV schedule is taken up by reality television, specifically the associated clusters of real housewives, alcoholic yacht stewards and “young” people with undiagnosed mood disorders who make up the Bravo universe. Vanderpump Rules. Southern Charm. Summer House. The jagged maps of Real Housewives and Below Deck franchises. Even the gone-in-a-flash vehicles like Gallery Girls and Ladies of London. I find all of them more engaging and interesting than even the most serious of prestige television.
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