Being Bobby Brown

We've become obsessed with the Bravo reality program Being Bobby Brown. Now, since I used to work for People Magazine and have been reading sleazy tabloids for centuries, I thought I was au courante on the complicated marriage of a once-promising and notoriously heterosexual R&B star to an angel-voiced diva who would have preferred to lick clits but who, when barred for promotional reasons from her gender preference of choice, turned to the crack pipe. But no, no, no! I was wrong.

The best thing about the show? Bobby is a one-man stud service. And he only asks one thing in return. All the kids have to be named… Bobby! Kind of like George Foreman except all George Foreman's kids are named "George." Still. You can see the trend.

Now I know where my life went wrong.

"Bobby Patrizia," says my husband, "I'm going out to get some milk. And after that I'm going to swing by the warehouse to restock. I'll take the stuff to the store –"

"Bobby Ben," I say. "Don't you think you should come back to the house first? Bobby Robin and Bobby Halen –"

"Halen's not a Bobby," my husband says firmly. "He's just on overnight loan."

"Well, anyway, they'll want their cereal –"

"Honey, in a situation like this you have to ask yourself: what would Bobby Brown do?"

I consider this question gravely. "Well, he'd probably say, 'Fuck this shit,' and head off to the barbeque shack with his bodyguards for some ribs and Budweiser."

"Exactly. Exactly. And what do we learn from that?"

"That it's better to be rich and drunk than poor and without milk."