You know, many of you assume the only reason I enjoy reality shows like Temptation Island--excuse me, Gonorrhea Peninsula--is simply to watch people suffer. Well, you assume correctly. While many viewers choose their favorite characters and root for them to win, I prefer to howl with malicious glee as these disgusting, subhuman jackasses get themselves into a jam and tearfully beg for relief as they wallow in a tub full of misery.

Yes, I loved it when Survivor's Jerri blatantly lied about some asshole hoarding beef jerky, and then the look on her face when the tribe turned against her. Likewise, my cute little fanny wriggled in ecstasy when those herpes-infected singles-bar cruisers on Temptation Island finally figured out their stupid, hormone-driven lives were morally empty and utterly devoid of meaning. My only regret is that the producers didn't provide a picturesque cliff for them to jump off of.

Think I'm a big dick? Well, whoopidy-doo! There's a shocker! All I know is that the more human misery there is on TV, the better! So you can just imagine my devilish delight after I witnessed the first episode of Boot Camp (FOX, Wednesdays, 9:00 pm). I swear to Christ it's like I done died and gone to heaven--a heaven filled with cruel assholes like me!

On the surface, Boot Camp plays pretty much like your run-of-the-mill reality show: Sixteen contestants from varied backgrounds are stuck together, given tasks, and slowly eliminated until one person takes home a truck-load of moola (in this case, 500,000 smackers). However! Instead of the cast lying around under a tarp all day accusing each other of stealing somebody's eyeliner, they're thrown into a military boot camp where the torture lasts 24-7. Here, four of the meanest, bad-assiest drill sergeants force the "recruits" to complete the most horrifying regimen of physical torture I've seen since my pee-wee football coach made me run bleachers for a solid hour.

From the moment they wake up till collapsing in their bunks at night, the recruits endure three-mile runs followed by hundreds of push-ups, as well as a host of mind-crushingly useless tasks that only make sense in the military. Now, this alone is enough to make me giggle like Machiavelli after receiving a new hot-poker on Christmas Day. But trust me--it gets even better.

Now, call me weird, but I confess I get a little erotic charge out of people who enjoy yelling. So when these drill sergeants are four inches away from a saliva-coated recruit's face, screaming, "SAVE THE DRAMA FOR YOUR MAMA!!!" at the top of their lungs, my hormones not only snap to attention, they're doing jumping jacks! (And you can just imagine my excitement when Sarge discovered one of his recruits was a "balloon sculptor.")

Okay, so maybe I am cruel and unusual, and maybe my winky does get a little chubby when the sergeant flushes a picture of the recruit's girlfriend down the toilet. The way I figure it, why not revel in the pain of others? I'll never have to go to boot camp, right? Waitasecond, I forgot! George W. is in the White House! Oh crap! Canada, here I come!