Miss Rap Supreme

As soon as VH1’s (White) Rapper Show — the greatest reality competition program in the history of cable television, next to, of course, The Assistant — ended last year, with doughy, possibly autistic Southerner $hamrock scoring a fraudulent victory over the perpetually dazed, preposterously self-aggrandizing “King of da ‘Burbz” John Brown, I have been waiting, hoping, praying for a second season. Alas, it never came.

But then, unbeknownst to me until literally the day of its premiere, VH1 began running ads for another show, produced by irreverent hip-hop magazine Ego Trip and hosted by former 3rd Base member MC Serch, the two forces behind (White) Rapper: Miss Rap Supreme. Swapping an all-Caucasian cast for 10 female contestants, living together in a house (or, in this case, a converted hotel in Downtown LA), competing in ridiculous rap-related challenges and vying for the title of — what else? — Miss Rap Supreme, it’s basically the same show, plus (or minus) more estrogen.

So why, in its first episode, does it appear to suck way worse?

It could be the comparative lack of engaging (read: laughably shameless) characters: In addition to $hamrock and John Brown, (White) Rapper had Jus Rhyme, the living embodiment of the phrase “white guilt”; Sullee, a Kevin Federline lookalike who quit the show when asked to write a rhyme against one of his teammates; and Persia who, among other things, brandished a pixelated dildo as a weapon and dropped the N-word during an argument, leading to her having to wear a giant “N-Word Chain” around her neck like a fake gold-plated scarlet letter. Of Miss Rap Supreme’s contestants, only two appear at all interesting and/or potentially hilarious: D.A.B., a recovering heroin addict and sexual abuse survivor; and Khia, who had a hit record out a few years back and for that reason has an ill-informed superiority complex even though, for some reason, she spit a hook (and misspells “respect”) during the elimination rap-off instead of a verse. And, frankly, there’s a little bit too much talent on this show. Outside of Persia, who had a legitimate flow but could never remember her lyrics, no one on (White) Rapper could actually rap, making the challenges — such as when the final three had to battle a bunch of underground emcees at a Detroit club — all the more entertaining. While I wouldn’t quite call anybody on Miss Rap Supreme “good,” the majority have some measurable skills, which, in the context of a hyper-ridiculous show like this, is kind of lame.

But, if I’m being honest, I have to admit the real reason why I feel Miss Rap Supreme doesn’t measure up to its predecessor: When it comes to reality shows, I’m a bit of a sexist. I have never been able to get into a program centered around females. Yeah, I watched both seasons of Flavor of Love and the first of Rock of Love, but that was almost entirely to see how much Flava Flav and Bret Michaels could embarrass themselves in the span of an hour; I couldn’t care less who they ended up with at the end. The Hills, The Bachelor — I don’t think I’ve seen a single episode. The progressive in me wants to believe my aversion to ovary-based reality TV is born from a subconscious refusal to dignify the negative portrayals of women on those shows — catty, shallow, prone to rip out each other’s weaves — with my viewership. But that would be a lie, because I seem to have no problem watching two chicks spit on each other, as long as its done in the name of winning the affection of a shriveled crackhead and/or a clandestinely balding, collagen-lipped rock star.

Is it true, then? Am I a pop-culture misogynist? If I had more time on my hands, I could probably concoct a rather reasonable argument for why women do not make as entertaining reality television fodder as men, sort of like how Christopher Hitchens scientifically proved that women aren’t funny. But then, that would leave me a lonely, alcoholic atheist, and I certainly don’t want that.