It seems impossible, but not enough has been said about Brooke Hogan’s creeping masculinity, her uncomfortable flirtation with her father and the absolute degradation of even the basest form of entertainment, reality television, that her show promotes. This thick-legged bitch is the absolute downfall of Western Civilization and it might as well be writ large across the ass of her rented, pussy-scented, velour sweat pants. Yet, she does provide one triumphant symbol, one giant, trend-setting, ground-breaking, example. Brooke Hogan has televised the Elektra complex.
Her show, Brooke Knows Best, even borrows its name from her father’s former program. Like Elektra herself, she has been impregnated by the Hulkamania that ran wild all over her and now births him in cameo appearances each episode. She fawns, flirts and, when they disagree over some middling topic, flagellates herself against the phallic shaped, bald head of the greatest wrestler to ever pin his own daughter. Her hero worship plays itself in each episode as she runs each decision by the Hulkster even as she, quite literally, runs past him in short skirts, tights or, in one way too obvious example, lingerie. And, while Brooke wiggles and waggles against the omni-present Hogan, Brooke’s mother might as well be deceased, buried in the 15 minutes of fame hinterland that is not being part of reality t.v.
MTV, never a station to shy away from awkward parent-children television shows, is taking the daddy dearest scenario and running it into a down South, keep it in the family, incestuous orgy of epic proportions. Immediately following Brooke’s girlish coquettishness comes the more demanding allure of Reverand Run’s daughters. Although they are less apt to use their feminine wiles to lure daddy’s gifts (I have, as of yet, seen either one of them pose in lingerie before the good Reverand, as Brooke did with The Hulk) they are similarly co-dependant of him. Trading on their power to manipulate a man seemingly so broken by the advent of “gangsta rap” that he ran to the nearest seminary, they have built a sneaker line, a t.v. show and a tiny little empire of anti-feminists around themselves.
Such Father Knows Best (and most intimately) relationships are not reserved for pseudo-celebrities only. Programs like “Parental Control,” “Date My Mother” and “Is She Really Going Out With Him?” insinuate a level of parental involvement in the dating and sexual activities of their children that seems unnatural at best. The moments at the end of each show, when the parents mug with their children for the cameras rather then with the significant other that they’ve just met, stayed with or dumped, are picture perfect representations of the very scenario encouraged by the insertion of throbbing parents into places they do not belong.
Of course, such deviant sexual practices would not be of concern if they remained where they belonged, within the privacy of homes or in pornographic movies. Yet, when placed on one of the most popular television channels and broadcast nationally, and, above that all, finds an eager audience, we realize that the father-daughter smooch fest is less a perversion and more an ingrained reality.
I just hope my daughter is hot.