But for lack of sufficient sadomasochistic tendencies, I would choose to cut myself repeatedly over exposure to the vanity, vapidity and vindictiveness of popular reality television shows. And when I flipped on the tube the other night, it was to be no different, but my penis had other plans. At the behest of this organ alone, I settled on the awful “America’s Next Top Model” (UPN, Wednesdays at 8pm ET/PT).

I shouted loudly at my wang: “What are you doing? We are not going to watch this!”

Wang replied: “But, I like Tyra Banks, look – ‘girl humps, girl humps, girl humps girl humps!’ ”

Me: “Would you please stop singing that?”

Wang: “Man, that’s my jam! ‘My humps, my humps, my humps…’ ”

Me: “Shut up! For the love of god shut up! Enough with that fucking song!”

Wang: “I don’t think you heard me—that is my jam! ‘My humps, my humps, my humps…’ You know I’m gettin’ that ring tone, bro… ‘My humps, my humps, my humps, my humps…’ Yeah, gonna’ be pretty sweet.”

Me: “Are you done?”

Wang: “I woulda’ been done five minutes ago, fool, if you didn’t start messin’ with my lady.”

Me: “Your lady? Come on, man. I’m changing the channel.”

Wang: “Well maybe you would be interested to know that Ms. Banks and I have been intimate on several occasions.”

Me: “I think I would remem—hey, change it back!”

Wang: “No way man, we are watching this. I like that girl; that’s my woman.”

Me: “You have got to be kidding me. I can’t believe you like that shallow, mask-wearing propagator of objectification and wickedness! She looks as if an evil race of miniature aliens riding invisible cranes are manipulating her facial expressions. She hisses the ugliest, most superficial, egomaniacal venom into the faces of the contestants and the American viewing public at large; all the while trying to convince us she is pure and perfect. I would like to slap that phony fucking smile right off her face!”

Wang: “Yea! You could use me to do that!”

Me: “Stop it! God damn it, what is wrong with you?”

Wang: “Oh nothing really, besides that I’m not all up inside of Tyra Banks, what you think fool? I want to tap dat ass, bro!”

Me: “Why don’t you try to think once in a while? This whole damn show is a commercial for beauty products, it provides men and impressionable adolescent girls with unrealistic expectations of what a woman should be, expectations of Barbie blackness; it’s a grotesque caricature of reality.”

Wang: “Big words, fag. Next thing you’ll tell me is ‘her necklace is gaudy’.”

Me: “So what? I think pearls are tacky.”

Wang: “I’d like to give her another string, if you uh, know what I’m sayin’—you know what I’m talkin’ bout! Dude, high-five!”

Me: “Yeah didn’t see that coming. You are such an idiot. Do you even know how dumb you are? Can you even fathom how much more stupid I am just from always hanging out with you!?”

Wang: “Dude, whatever, you are such a homo.”

My wang and I went back forth like this for the duration of the program. We both argued vehemently to the backdrop of airbrushed photos being critiqued by D-list celebrity fashion drones. We agreed to disagree, and called a draw. We did, later on in the night, reach a compromise: sexual fantasies starring Tyra Banks would also feature me as a wizard (how else would I nail Trya Banks?), ejaculated lightning would paralyze her larynx and save America from the Banks reign of terror.

Now, before a mob of frothing femi-nazis burn down the BEAST offices with flaming, flannel-wrapped, kerosene-soaked tampons for my overt misogyny; I only hate fake women. Fakers like Tyra Banks. My wang don’t know no better either; it even gets down on lesbians from time to time, despite obvious logistical problems. The wang is a persuasive and stupid thing; it controls the world but is easily misled. Wang and the desire for wang puts shows like “America’s Next Top Model” on the air in the first place, programs that reinforce self-loathing in women and sheer idiocy in men. Vehicles for commerce, booby-trapped with neuroses-inducing content; the proverbial finger down the throat of an overweight middle school student.

I don’t mean to get all heavy here, but with all of this evil coursing the globe, from unjustified war to famine to AIDS, “America’s Next Top Model” shouldn’t scratch the surface of my disgust for popular media tripe: but it hit me hard. It made me weep. It made me realize how complacently we swallow the most brazen lies about even ourselves as humans. What hope is left for America to see through the lies that kill by the hundreds of thousands?

As long as silicon, botox, bleached hair and clichés of feminine emptiness continue to fool the wangs that rule the planet, what hope can we possibly have for peace? None. We are all doomed, and you can check it out on “America’s Next Top Model” (UPN, Wednesdays at 8pm ET/PT)!