I love that show. I want to marry it and make a dozen little babies with it (if only...). KB and I channel surf for a few minutes before we go to bed at night and squeal with delight when we find it on.
There's a twisted curiosity in observing the sad, pathological behavior of people featured on cable network programming. There are at least 2 or 3 intervention-style shows; OCD-focused programs; and now, the coup de grace, Hoarders. Watching it is like watching a train wreck in slow motion -- a train that is piled sky-high with mounds of shit and broken lampshades. That's entertainment.
KB and I are sick fucks and supply our own dialogue to the show, to try and crack each other up. My favorite is when the therapist first visits the hoarder's house to evaluate their attachment to their massive piles of shit. They say to the camera, very solemnly, something along the lines of, "Hoarders have an unnatural attachment to 'things' that is very hard to let go." Wow, did you have to go to school to learn that? All my years of armchair psychology could have been paying off, and here I was giving it away. Then they tour the house, inasmuch as turning from side to side to gaze upon the ceiling-high heaps of garbage counts as a walk-through. This is the point at which the hoarder usually nonchalantly invites the therapist to just crawl over a 4-foot-high pile of broken computer monitors and old toilet seats to get to the next shit-crammed space. No biggie, just grab onto this rickety bookcase overflowing with my 8000-piece truckstop spoon collection and use your left foot to climb on top of this car battery and then place your right foot on this precariously stacked pile of canned goods and hop on over to the kitchen, where gobs of rotten lettuce and spoiled meat await!
Then they move on to the cleaning phase. Oh, this usually goes about as well as you'd expect. KB and I really ratchet up the soundtrack at this point; we had each other almost in tears last night. He decided that I would be great at this hoarder therapy business, and the session might go like this:
"What the fuck is this pile of shit? Are you seriously going to try and keep this? It smells like cat turds. You disgust me. Jesus."
All of the individual items must be inspected by the hoarder, which takes up the entire first day just to empty one box filled with rusted out stray silverware and some other unidentifiable tchotchkes. This is where KB had me in hysterics last night. Every item that came out for consideration elicited KB's spirited, "NOOOOO! Not my cracked wooden toilet seat! I NEEEEED that!" until I laughed myself to hiccups. We both admit that we feel like assholes for making fun of hoarders, but damn, that show is entertaining.