The Alphaville Herald

Fear and Loathing in Second Life, Part 7: The Sordid History of the Big Brother Fiasco, Day 1

by Alphaville Herald on 05/02/07 at 8:52 pm

[Readers of the Herald will recall our earlier reports on the disaster that was Big Brother in Second Life. Perhaps you *didn't* know that our faithful correspondent, Gideon Television was there, as a contestant! Well it is so. Today Gideon begins retelling (in day-by-day "blow"-by-"blow" fashion) the whole sordid tale. Sorry we didn't publish this as it happened. --Ed.]

And so it begins. 15 avatars, one house, one month. And this is my confessional.

Assembling before the show I get my first look at the degenerates and reprobates into who’s faces I’ll be peering for the days to come. And that’s when I realized – it’s 12 girls and 3 guys, and the view really isn’t that bad.

Let’s pause for a moment to do the arithmetic there. That’s four menage-a-trois, plus substitutes on the bench, and as any tech nerd will tell you, you can’t have too many backups. But, as with all quadratic equations, life is never that simple, and the chilly breeze wafting across the island makes me think this is no Temptation Island.

As I walk down the red carpet, fans cheer support, but not for me. It seems that while I spent my last week of freedom in the Second Life version of The House of the Rising Sun, my fellow competitors have galvanized their fanbase. Already I’m beginning to realize that without a radical strategy, my days are numbered, and that number is 7.

But it’s too soon to reveal my plans to you – not just yet. Instead, I enter the house uneventfully, make my way to the balcony high and make ready to grin sweetly, like a fox eating shit out of a wire brush (that’s not mine by the way – but hell, I’ll use it).

And then – chaos. From the crowd Travis Bickle emerges, singing soft love songs to Jodie, and begins to cage and flame the remaining contestants. It’s high drama that has The Diva running for the house. I suppress a giggle, for I’m reminded of nothing more than countryside beaters, scaring the pheasants into the sights of the rifle. It’s an apt metaphorical moment that couldn’t have been better if it were scripted. Or staged….

And then the gates are locked. They’re in with me. And their sentence begins.

Put twelve good women in an enclosed room together for a month, and there’s a couple of things that you can be sure will happen. Firstly their cycles will synchronize, leading to a single week of hell every lunar period.

And, without fail, they’ll begin to rearrange the furniture.

As if marking their territory with prims instead of urine, each has defined their space with throw pillows, meditation chairs and fireplaces. It’s tasteful, and chic, and it’s going to drive me out of my mind. Where’s the stripper’s pole? Where’s the mattress room? Where’s the goddam big screen TV and 24 hr sports channel? The basic necessities.

Golda the rat lady had built a giant keg. I’d made an off-hand remark about needing to get beer in, and she took it to the extreme. But instead of being filled with the amber nectar, the inside was her nest. And while I’m no connoisseur, rat droppings in my beer always takes the edge off my mid-evening buzz.

Meanwhile in Lillani and Warda’s corner, they’d created an installation that riffed off the glass habitrails. I marked time for awhile, walking faster but going nowhere, and for a moment, I was reminded of my life outside the house.

Meanwhile the floozies lined up to gawk at the inmates, and despite my screaming objections, Big Brother held fast that conjugal visits were not allowed.

As if in desperation, and feigning exhaustion, I lay down beside Pannie. A smoking redhead in sheer blue lingerie, it was all the more delicious as I knew her husband was watching from outside the glass. Poor sap. But before I could move into action, the darkness enclosed me, and the first day in the house was over. Sleep tight, maties.

(This sad tale originally appeared on GideonTelevision.com.)