Last year I became mildly interested in the last few episodes of the VH1 reality show Rock of Love 2. It was a little sexist and crude, but since I watched just in time to see Bret Michaels eliminate a few Barbie look-a-likes and declare his love for a career-oriented woman his own age, the superficial elements were merely humorous and did not bother me much.

Graphic by Caitlin Cook

But the love couldn’t last because Bret was back this season with a whole new show that I watched first with curiosity and then with horror. Rock of Love Bus features a bunch of poorly constructed Barbie dolls that bear little resemblance to real-life women. They’re nothing more than stereotypical, sexist and skewed versions of the female human being, and it amazes and somewhat frightens me that women actually enthusiastically watch this show in order to sympathize and cheer them on.

Rock of Love Bus has contestants such as the sophisticated Playboy type, the drunk and angry divorced mom, the fake blonde with a Valley Girl speech impediment, the silent stripper who never wears more than two scraps of cloth at a time and the sweet but clueless brunette with a Southern drawl.

Bret plies them with liquor from the moment they get up until the moment they pass out. He arranges “challenges” where they wear just enough clothing to prevent arrest for exposing themselves in public and then stagger around in push-up bras and high heels to battle for his attention, the censor beeping out every other word expelled from over-collagen-injected lips. When a team wins, the reward is a date to a strip club with Bret where the women consume more alcohol than I was aware a human being could contain and still function, while the camera frequently cuts out to show little segments in which they all maliciously bash one another. They are snide, violent and cruel. They giggle hysterically at comments like, “bras should be illegal,” either unaware or uncaring that they are being objectified and insulted.

In the middle of this nightmarish menagerie sits middle-aged Bret Michaels, watching his flock of peacocks flounce around him in all their early-to-mid-20’s glory. He says he wants love, but he is looking in the age pool of former Poison groupie offspring. He says he wants a faithful girlfriend, but tells the contestants that they have to keep up with his life on the road, and all of his flirty female fans. He says he wants a woman he can respect, but he evaluates the women on his show by making comments about their breasts, their attitudes and their ability to work a stripper pole. So what is he doing?

Bret Michaels misses his glory days. He wants fame, fortune and to feel like a hardcore rocker. He is clinging to the 80s by a thread of hair extensions, eyeliner and lap dancers young enough to be his daughters, mesmerized by their jiggling implants and then acting hurt when he discovers that they’re only out for their own 15 minutes of fame. It’s a pathetic display of a grown man with the desperate need to grow up. He is perpetuating the stereotype of a washed up rock star and, in the process, is encouraging the bastardization of feminine beauty and the stereotype of young women in the process.