Gals Gone Wild

So I have this idea for a bitchin’ reality series I’m thinking of pitching to Nutflex, though truth be told, I’d probably have a better chance of being heard by the moguls at Disney-minus or Spottythigh or, God forbid, Crunchyroll (a real thing I did not make up, much as I wish I had).

The concept — Gals Go Wild — is loosely based on the popular pornon franchise Girls Go Wild (pornon being a freshly coined portmanteau of porn and moron; this one I’m rather proud of). 

Except that there wouldn’t be any shower scenes or naked football and/or any naked football in the shower (especially involving flags). No fake lesbian making out, no chug-a-lug sexual activity of any kind, and above all: NO WET T-SHIRT CONTESTS (except possibly by accident during antic pourings of Sanka Instant Decaf and/or Maxwell House industrial waste with nondairy creamer).

The concept is so simple that I’m surprised no one has thought of it before.

A group of women d’un certain âge (let’s say plus de soixante ans) — each evincing that special je ne sais pas ce qui les déprime autant (though we all know it’s almost certainly their husbands) — will shuffle about aimlessly in housecoats and comfortable sandals or froufrou slippers.

Think Judy Garland in her shambolic late-career variety specials. (Let’s have a hand for Lionel Hampton on the vibes.)

They’ll be free to talk about whatever enters their heads, bien sûr. But as an ever-attentive mari and helpmeet (insert penis joke here), I’ve come up with some suggestions to get the balls rolling, if you will.

Topics could include, for example, hilarious anecdotes about Brazilian bikini waxing faux pas with attendants named Mario or Renaldo during Mediterranean cruises, the difficulty in finding appropriate thongs once past 57, and what it was like to wear those hulking Kotex maxipads the size of Wonder Bread loaves (and with much the same consistency) in the Swinging Sixties.

Hey, I’m here to serve (insert penis joke here).

Other possible topics for when the conversation turns dry as the digestive biscuits and Walkers shortbread to be served on paper plates next to the strategically placed cork coffee cup coasters: 

What it was like to dry-hump in the backseat of a Datsun PL410 at the Skyway Drive-In Theatre in 1967 during early screenings of The Dirty Dozen (paired with Cat Ballou during double features for hardcore Lee Marvin fans); whether Jann Arden’s “Insensitive” or Joni Mitchell’s “River” inevitably repeat when they’re feeling blue and put their iPods on the shuffle function; and what their weekend plans are for organizing the storage unit in the basement.

Also, speaking of Jane Fonda, did any of them have deleted scenes in Barbarella?

(Insert penis joke here.)

If all else fails, one of them can talk about the tumours of someone none of the rest of us has ever heard of or will ever meet. This never fails to engage a studio audience.

However, based on my extensive research in the field, I’m betting that most of the discussion would revolve around the manifest failings of the men in their lives. 

You know. 

The guys who in the 1950s and ’60s devoured Mad magazine, played cowboys and Indians with the toy guns and holsters that were under the Christmas tree every year, dug the same 45s after Elvis and Jerry Lee and Little Richard and The Cat in the Hat broke through the Ozzie and Harriet upholstered-chair-evening-paper Norman Rockwell bullcrap, regularly got kicked out of class for having long hair, sneaked booze from our parents and peeks at Playboy on magazine newsstands in drug stores, thrilled to B movies with names like Killer Shrews and The Thing that Came from Outer Space, and later topped this all off by denting the family vehicle while monkeying with a stuck eight track during Honky Tonk Women and driving too fast over black ice. 

The same stout and doughty fellows that we are today. Mostly stout. And doughy. Speaking of Wonder Bread.

Did I say “we”? “They.” I clearly meant “they.” 

(Insert James Brown cape routine here.)

Forgive me, but I don’t have any sisters and am clueless as to what the girls were doing in that period (a word I am using in a purely generic sense here). Reading Nancy Drew, Tessie the Typist and True Romance comics? 

Boy, were they ever due for an epic letdown as adults. Which is mostly what the conversation on the show would be about, at least as I envisage it.

There is plenty of room for disagreement about my concept, but can we at least acknowledge that it is hopelessly stupid? Besides, The View is into its 29th season (possibly 30th; I always run out of fingers, toes and teeth at this point) and has already covered many or all of these germane issues. 

But there is one serious subject that I’ll bet all the women who spent the early 1980s demurely perspiring to Beta videos of the original Jane Fonda Workout would love to weigh in on.

(Insert Grace and Frankie joke here.)

In her 2011 autobiography Bossy Pants, the fabulous Tina Fey observed “that women, at least in comedy, are labelled crazy after a certain age.”

FEMALE WRITER: You ever work with (name redacted like 10,000 mentions of a certain DJT in the Epstein files)?

MALE AGENT: (dismissive) She’s crazy now.

FEMALE WRITER: You know who I loved growing up? (Name redacted). What about her for this part?

MALE WRITER: I don’t know. I hear she’s pretty batshit.

FEMALE WRITER: I got a call today from (name redacted).

MALE PRODUCER: Ugh. We had her on the show once. She was a crazy assache. She wanted to see her lines ahead of time. She had all these questions.

I’ve known men in comedy who can barely feed and clean themselves, and they still work. The women, though, they’re all “crazy.”

I have a suspicion — and hear me out, ’cause this is a rough one — I have a suspicion that the definition of “crazy” in show business is a woman who keeps talking even after no one wants to fuck her anymore.

Me again. Thank you, Liz Lemon, for clearing the air with a demure use of profanity.

I have a suspicion — and hear me out, ’cause I’m a man (insert “head of the household” here, next to the doilies on my upholstered chair) so I know what I’m talking about — I have a suspicion that this provocative definition of “crazy” extends well beyond show biz.

I have observed that older women are labelled as crazy whenever they say something men don’t want to hear. Or shrews. Or the bitchin’ B-word.

And that’s what I bet the participants on Gals Gone Wild would get around to discussing. In my vision, at least one of them has switched to a lime polyester Hillary Clinton power suit. 

And now back to that Jane Fonda Workout video. Places, everyone! Tighten those headbands and legwarmers. Get your butt off the floor!

(Insert penis joke here.)