Bloody hell.
There's no denying that The X Factor's gruesome twosome of Natalia Kills and Willy Moon overstepped all sorts of boundaries in their bizarre, nonsensical and ultimately bungled assassination attempt of singing hopeful Joe Irvine, but that was their job. That's what they were getting paid to do. So they did. Just a little too well, it seems.
But can we all put down our burning torches, just for a second, and remember that the format of the show demands the judging panel have a big meanie on it - just as it dictates there's a nice one, a bland one and a dumb one. It's the formula and you'll find it in the contract. In the fine print. Near the back.
The big problem here is that TV3 messed up their maths by hiring two meanies instead of just one. Rookie error. Though I am absolutely positive they see it as a masterstroke and that they will never ever admit to this. But come on, this sort of global publicity cannot be bought.
The one positive thing to come out of this whole sorry saga is that bullies now know that their bullying will not be tolerated in our fine nation. It's a good message for the kids.
And if you do bully someone? Well, I hope you have airfare saved up, buddy, because a braying angry mob will assemble and bully the living bejebus out of you until you get your bullying ass the hell out of our bully-free country. It's called mob justice, sunshine, and that's how it works. Boom!
Read more: Cults, stalking and burning down a house - the controversial past of fired X Factor judge Natalia Kills
TV3's reality apocalypse is just blowing up everything right now: the television ratings, the entirety of the nation's media, all the social networks and, it seems, everybody's goddamn minds.
Did Mediaworks not get the memo that terrestrial television is dead and that online streaming is where it's at? Obviously not. And man, have they ever offered one hell of a rebuttal to that foolish notion.
This whole thing is especially painful for me because I loathe the reality genre at the best of times - which is when I'm happily ignoring it.
But being force-fed coverage of it every damn day like I am now is simply a cruel, hellish torture. One I would only wish on my worst enemies. And those that have wronged me in some other minor fashion. And a couple of other people that I'm not all that fond of.
To borrow a phrase, if I dare, I am embarrassed to be sitting here. It feels a bit cheap and absurd.
Because in reality - actual reality - that's exactly what it is.
Short of instigating a full-blown mainstream media/social media blackout there's absolutely no way of avoiding this manufactured reality.
It's impossible, folly, a fool's errand.
And like a fool I've tried really, really hard to do so. I've failed miserably.
Through no desire or fault of my own I know who Willy Moon is, I know Lorde sent Joe Irvine some cupcakes to cheer him up and I know that in among the gaggle of fawning bachelorettes lurk some hardened criminals.
Is there such a thing as low poppy syndrome? Because I'm pretty sure that's what I'm suffering from right now. I have precious few brain cells as it is. I can't afford to deplete them on things as moronically infantile and imbecilic as The Bachelor or The X Factor.
The country desperately needs a reality check, is all I'm saying. How long will it take for all this to blow over and get the hell off my radar? This giant hullabaloo has got way out of hand.
And the worst part is there's still more to come: new judges to announce, a dozen singers whose dreams still need to be crushed and a fairy tale romance between one dude and 12 bunny boilers to blossom.
And you can bet we're gonna hear all about it.
Ugh. Reality bites.
