Hello. My name is Jeff. And I’m a reality TV junkie.

Some people drink to excess, some over-eat, some are cigarette fiends, some are workaholics. I’m all those things. (Why the hell couldn’t I be a sex addict while I’m at it?).

The only addiction that really bothers me is my attraction to reality TV. And this feeling has only reared its ugly head since I began watching “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.”


Up to this point, no reality show has ever red-lined my disgust-meter, even VH1 train wrecks like “The Pickup Artist” and “Rock of Love.”

But for some reason “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here” has done it.

I don’t mind the F-list celebrities; in fact I love washed up former stars trying desperately to remain relevant in a business that chews up and spits out people like yesterday’s newspaper. At least they’re trying. But these cast members and the two plastic hosts are either fake as hell (Speidi and Janice Dickinson) or just plain boring (everybody else). The episodes are pointless and anti-climactic, unless you like watching people eat cow balls and jungle worms and then wave their crusty tongues at the camera.

So, after cringing through the first five episodes I’ve decided to quit my first reality show in mid-season and move on to something more substantial — such as “Daisy of Love.”