Death By Pants Off Dance Off
Countdown To Meltdown
Imagine if television broadcast nothing but top quality shows. Explosive action, emotive drama, cutting comedy. Hour after hour after hour. Nothing but the best. For you. For me. For everyone. Just take a second to process that thought. Your only trouble would be finding the time to watch everything, because everything is must-see TV. There is literally nothing that doesn't appeal to you. Every one of the hundreds of channels is packed with incredible shows. Your every televisual whim is catered for. Imagine what great taste we'd have as a race. Imagine what we'd learn. What we'd see and enjoy. TV Heaven on Earth.
Crucially there is one small problem with this. What would the stupid watch? They need something. We can't just lock them away and leave their genes to wither and die because apparently 'that's wrong'. And that's why, for every House, for every Mad Men, for every The Wire, there is unfortunately; a Pants Off Dance Off.
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There are things in the world I haven't seen; 2girls1cup and Saddam Hussein Execution for example. Then there are things I wish I hadn't seen; Pants Off Dance Off is one of those things. I mean, have you seen this shit? Have you actually seen this shit? There's a good chance you haven't, and I applaud that. After all, why would you? Why would you subject yourself to this mind-numbing mental torture? You wouldn't. Obviously.
Essentially the show is nothing but 'ordinary' members of the public, dancing whilst strategically removing their clothes. The backdrop to this miserable expression of individuality is a music video presumably chosen by the foreground to convey his/her cultural tastes. These spectacularly simple citizens, known as 'Pancers', thrash around like epileptic fish in a desert, struggling awkwardly to rid themselves of their fabric chastity suits. All in the name of entertainment. All for you.
The dancing is interspersed with vox pops of the 'Pancer' discussing aspects of their lives. Their favourite song, favourite underwear combination, favourite murderous dictator, favourite method of braincell obliteration. That sort of stuff. I couldn't really hear because the show had somehow warped my whole reality until all I could hear was an intense, high-frequency hiss.
In case you find the concept of a simple striptease stale, the producers kindly issue each 'Pancer' with a mystery object. The object is presumably to help add another flavour to the striptease. A particularly potent flavour of disdain for all of Earth's inhabitants struck me as I watched Insufferable Whore #6 dance around a chair, and Generic Slapper #3 prance around in a pink wig.
Despite this venomous nonsense being twisted and presented as colourful fun, it's not the sickening levels of exploitation of the world's waste matter that disturbed me most. What almost inspired me to dig out my own eyes with a blunt pencil and launch them at the TV in disgust, before tearing off my ears and feeding them to an imaginary dragon, was the narration. The voice over is painful. It is possibly the least funny thing in the history of history. More humour could be derived from a global takeover by a Megazord comprising of Dr. Josef Mengele, Josef Fritzl, Joseph Stalin, Osama Bin Joseph and Mojo Jojo who brutally, raped, tortured and finally murdered everyone that's ever lived than this. Then again, being raped by Mojo Jojo is funnier than most things.
The US version previously involved audience participation. The audience could text and vote for their winner. For the third series, this was discontinued in favour of a judging panel, who chose a weekly winner. The winner of each episode received $200 and the chance to 'compete' in a championship at the end of the season. A championship. Essentially, a 'who is the biggest tosser/skank' contest. Viewers can also vote online for their "funniest", "most disturbing" and "best dancer".
This, at least gives the impression the show may not take itself too seriously. But there are crack dealers that don't take themselves too seriously, they still deal crack. That's what Pants Off Dance Off delivers. Crack. Crack without the high. Crack that leaves you sat alone on a bed of broken syringes with your knees tucked into your body, as you rock gently back and forth in a puddle of your own discharge within a grimy, foreign toilet cubical, foaming at the mouth and wishing the bad people would go away.
Still, it's something. At least US version offers a little. A tiny portion of interactivity, and a cash prize. What do we offer in the UK version of the show? Nothing. I'm not exaggerating. Nothing. No winners. No prizes. It's not even a competition, it's a nightmare. Mentally damaged plankton swimming through the dank depths of anonymous obscurity to the sounds of a dystopian future. It's like Total Recall meets Babestation meets Requiem For a Dream.
Given that the show is one long striptease, there is a chance of seeing a tit or three. Which renders the show a must-see right? Wrong. It renders the show a rung below badly produced soft porn. Somewhere between neurotoxic poison and shameless exploitation. Sitting through an episode is about as much fun as having uranium tonsils.
Pants Off Dance Off is an abomination. What does this show offer? I defy you to give me a good answer. Mankind, what the hell are you playing at? Never in all my years of TV have I seen something so lacking in substance. I wouldn't subject this to a coma patient. I wouldn't feed this to my dog. Just who is the target audience for this? Really? Is it you? If it is, you should do the world a favour and dance your pants off. Then use them to hang yourself. You heard.
I often talk about shows in this callous and pretentious manner, and most of them can be defended as trashy but altogether harmless fun. This however, has no place in a sane world. But perhaps we can salvage some use from this televisual disturbance. It could be utilised by the government as a national screening process. Anyone who wilfully watches or participates in any way should be sectioned and be subjected to the Ludovico Technique. Just like they did to Alex in A Clockwork Orange. It's about time we tortured some sense into these interlopes.
Deep breaths.
MacTingz.
Article first published as Death by Pants Off Dance Off on Technorati.
Death By Pants Off Dance Off
By: Sean McGeady