Within a few days, I received an email. They like me. I made it, to the second round that is. It was an automated ‘congratulations’ (Similar to my mother when I would bring home my participation award ribbons). There is also a link to the next application, which was lengthier, consisting of about 39 questions. It asked generic questions, such as ‘Why do you want to be on the Real World?’ I wrote: In order to meet awesome people and have the experience of a lifetime. I don’t take shit from anyone and think I can bring an interesting and comedic character to the show. (A more favorable and honest answer might be ‘Because I will do whatever it takes to be famous’.)
Other questions asked to describe an intense argument you recently had, relationship status, and how other people would describe. Do not be afraid to be original with your responses. And by original, I mean be vulgar, funny, and let them know you aren’t scared to pick a fight, or hookup with your best friend’s significant other. Actually, just specify you do not expect to be yourself and are a very good actor/actress. It might help if you have a criminal record. A few short days later, I made it to the third round. The casting directors want to meet with not just anybody, me. They really like me.
Regretfully, I must share this newfound fame got to me and I forgot the goal of this experiment. I couldn’t help but do a few humble brags. Hey Stephanie, I might be featured on The Real World! Isn’t that random? I applied as a joke, never thought they would actually pick me. I bet Stephanie wishes she would have been nicer to me in high school. My bliss was short lived. The following day someone else posted on Facebook he was picked to meet with the casting directors, ridiculing that they picked him despite his sarcastic responses. It was also brought up to my attention that they do open casting calls and the first two phases are basically meaningless. Suddenly, I also stopped being polite and got a little real. This is the part on live television when I would’ve been bleeped.
Heartbroken, I attended the audition nonetheless. I overslept and missed my appointment. It didn’t matter. Anyone could walk in and sign up anyway. It took place at Paddy’s Whack Irish Sports Club in Philly. I took a two-hour bus for you, my readers. It was a mixed crowd, and a lot of the individuals not the type I would envision would want to be on reality TV. It was a very informal audition. We went around the circle introducing ourselves and responding to questions I already had answered in the application. It felt somewhat like Alcoholics Anonymous. Not that I would know what that is like, or anything. Some people gave very mundane answers, while others were extreme in flaunting their unique life styles and just how special they are. I kept it at an intermediate, assuring them that I don’t read, but also not going to kill anyone either.
My favorite response was by a twenty-two year old girl, Monica, who said, “I should be featured on the real world because I think I have the look for it and everyone always tells me I should be famous. I am always the center of attention and very open minded.” I wrote this down on my iPhone immediately, knowing it should be included as a good example response. Pretend this is the SAT. I have yet to be contacted by the casting directors, but they are still conducting castings in other states. The final step involved is the hardest, selling your soul to the devil. I had a chance to look at the standard contract those elected are forced to sign prior to going on the show. Two of my favorite points you must agree to are by participating you are accepting the risk of death or serious physical injury, and that other risks include non-consensual physical contact, which could result in you contracting an STD. You might seriously want to consider getting a lawyer.
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