The following poem was written as a tribute to Chaucer’s prologue in The Canterbury Tales. If you’ve read the prologue, and the rest of the stories, or not you’ll see there’s a rhyme scheme and the meter is iambic…
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Big Brother Four Tales
They dove right in the pool of reality,
jumped right in headstrong and wholeheartedly,
Big Brother can’t be pegged “just” a game or show.
It’s own monster it is, play-by-play, blow-for-blow.
Alleged grown strangers after the prize of half mil,
anything goes, do what you want save for kill.
Lying, back-stabbing, taking in vain the lord’s name,
seducing and fawning, clothes come off with no shame.
It’s not The Bachelor, Top Chef, or Survivor,
cash prize to one winner, rest losers, one summer.
Social psych, manipulation, and greed…
watch your back, catch a bluff, it takes a sure breed.
There came a summer a twist in the rules,
instead of mere strangers some exes how cruel.
Dug up ex boyfriends, ex girlfriends, partners…
fresh ones and old haunts, he said she said hers.
So thirteen mad people fought that summer,
week by week one booted, dumb then dumber…
Come that season, the fourth of Big Brother,
contenders out-wit out-lied each other,
spoils to one victor, small sum to the rest…
500 thousand dollars to the best.
An FBI Man, retired, the oldest
his skills and stealth, wisest stifled boldest.
His life already full, even published.
a win be a challenge, to be relished.
At first glance you’re unsure to entrust him,
“facts” man, a listener, controlled, knows not whim…
Which one of these is not like the other?
Sore thumb sticks out he yet, fights Big Brother.
And what do we have here oh, the Baby.
So young and impressionable. Maybe?
Jailbait two years back and just turned nineteen,
she was still two too young, sun-screened, pristine.
So the papers redrawn, done and then sent
additional line: parental consent.
For in the house, there’s drinking carousing,
“like, kinda like spring break, like, with housing”.
Her ex-boyfriend the Military Stud,
action figure come to life from above…
Least sheltered least needy of the thirteen,
having seen battle, this game seemed routine.
Producers said “stipend”, dollar signs talk,
house of civilians, enough bull for crock.
He accepted the dare, as did his ego…
thinking “cake-walk” but ready to tango.
Speaking of cake, was the Chef of the house,
gifted with gab then quiet as a mouse.
The way to each vote was through each stomach…
kept it simple and basic wreaked havoc.
In the kitchen cooking, cleaning, watching…
she was, dragon hidden tiger crouching.
Role-player was she, read all about it…
winning her fantasy, never doubt it.
Her ex such a Clown, though served his purpose…
comic relief, appealed to the masses.
Good-natured by nature, real Peter Pan…
simple and happy to be just, wingman.
He considered himself lucky to play
never thought on tv he’d be, one day.
What the hell he thought, he’d give it a try,
American dream, a piece of the pie.
The same kinda pie, the Hick had grown up on
apple, peach, blueberry, pumpkin, pecan.
Corn-fed, made in the U.S.A was he
stars in his eyes, so craved celebrity.
Big Brother his ticket out his small town,
a jock all his life no bigger touchdown.
He wanted to win go back a hero,
buy a big farm and plant miles of cornrows.
Another big dreamer, and a Big Pain…
was a young girl, as spiteful as Cain.
She needed attention, constant spotlight,
playing hard for the money, morning/night.
She flirted, lash-batted, tested the rules…
a vicious pit-bull, her tactics quiet cruel.
The rest of the house deemed her a menace,
all jokes aside, true pain in the anus.
On the other hand her ex, a true Gem
why and how they had dated huh?! Ahem…
This gem of a man joy to be around,
smart, strong, most of all, mentally sound.
Excelling in tasks of body and mind…
perfect someone with whom to be aligned.
Great partner and friend, daunting foe and threat,
he focused on winning from the outset.
But distraction occurred, call her Spitfire
feisty yet friendly, prone to go haywire.
Intense could have been her real middle name,
competitive she was, same with this game.
She never had planned on falling in lust,
after all for the win, full-tilt or bust.
Passion, obsession, call it what you will…
tears of frustration often did she spill.
More spilling there was, of guts by a Kook,
the stress, the drama, sufficiently spooked.
Big talker, loud balker, clearly wounded…
Big Brother too much for him too sordid.
The houseguests avoided him at all costs
no matter how tough he looked, felt the frost
Kooky and crazy, borderline sleazy…
he soon became unhinged, caused a frenzy.
The internal frenzy caused by a Minx,
his ex-fiancée he loved still, love stinks!
Her coyness, her dimples, eyes that twinkled…
got her through life but this game, a wrinkle…
Ill-prepared and not ready for battle,
so easy to coax, easy to rattle.
She smiled quite a lot and lovely she was,
being sweet wins not this game, never does.
Never sweet though was one Weasel, oh no…
a weasel in every sense, so shallow.
Much like used car salesmen, no hope for cure,
to know him was to abhor him, for sure.
He lacked any tact and social morale,
he fancied himself a stud for all gals.
Not blessed with brains/brawn, underachiever…
turns out he’s a habitual cheater!
His cheated-on ex, was pure Hollywood…
knockout bod, silicone under the hood.
She had once ago dreamt thespian dreams…
her move to L.A. part of her whole scheme.
Landing a role, escaped her for so long
then this reality show her swan song.
Shrewd, sly, conniving, just built for this game…
cash at stake, Machiavelli her name.
Overnight they all grew an appendage,
in the form of a microphone; bondage
More pairs of eyes, than you could imagine…
watched, listened, psychological pageant.
Each breath and each lie followed by cameras
twenty four hours covering all genres.
So that one summer, I took on the challenge,
I (me) the Chef, served up clockwork orange.
Stay with me, you’ll see how reality
gets twisted, distorted, sometimes slutty.
I swear to you this, the battle was fierce…
and dirty and hurtful chock-full of tears.
This war was quite epic, Big Brother 4,
the whole story I have, want to hear more?
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Everyone should actually read more Chaucer and watch less television.