Warren versus Mark II: Say, wasn't that a book from the New Testament?

Okay, where was I? Seems like days ago. Right... Kinzilla versus Markthra. Innocent children photoshopped all to hell. Lawyers, bloody lawyers. Sultans. Somebody was ordering beer. Oh yeah -- and some jackass promised a solution.

So here's what the Sultan of Jackass has come up with so far: Reality TV.

Well, I didn't really come up with reality TV. According to Wikipedia, that's credited to some Italian guy named Circa, and apparently he did it in the year 2000 (or thereabouts). But reality TV is where I found my inspiration for a way out of the defamoblogopolitical quagmire.

(As an aside, I've always turned to TV for answers. When I was a 20-something playboy chef with two nubile roomies and a pestering landlord, TV taught me that hilarity was just a misheard conversation away. Earlier, when I was a chubby-cheeked African-American boy adopted by a wealthy white widower, it taught me that the way out of any tricky situation was to ask my older brother what he was "talkin' 'bout". Later, when I was four older women living together in Miami... You get the picture.)

Anyway, back to Warren and Mark. Did I say we're going to put them in a custom-made reality TV show? Well, get this: we're going to put them in a custom-made reality TV show. (Well, not really. It's just going to be pretend. You know how I pretend to be funny? Just like that.)

As for the custom-made part, apparently I've got to do that, too. Apparently, I have to do everything around here, 'cause none of you are helping any. I mean, you'd think I'd get some useful suggestions via e-mail. Not a one. Actually, that's not true -- I got one useful suggestion via e-mail. But I don't think the "all new Enlargomatic" is all that relevant here.

Anyway, this is proving to be a bit of a challenge since I'm far from a reality TV fanatic. Never was a Big Brother guy. I don't do Apprentice. Yes, I've dabbled in Survivor, but only to do vacation planning and brush up on my cultural anthropology.

But I think I have a grasp of the genre. A little man versus man, some man versus nature. Some water versus bikini never hurt.

And I have had some ideas. My first couple I tossed right away -- one, Canadian Aging Punk Rock Idol, because it unfairly favoured Kinsella, and the other, Canada's Next Top Amateur Paleontologist Who is Being Bullied By An Irrelevant Political Blowhard, because, well... no reason. (Is that a libel chill in here, or are my nipples just that naturally perky?)

I gave some serious thought to an Ottawa-based version of Fox's family-reality series Nanny 911 -- which I was going to call Nanny 613. The description for the original show ("unruly tykes" and "temper tantrums") seemed very apropos of the Kinsella-Bourrie affair. But then I learned that the nanny's preferred punishment each time an unruly brat acts out is one minute of "time out" for each year of the child's age. I have no clue how old Bourrie is, but Kinsella is no spring chicken (I mean, check out the hairline). That much dead air (and forehead) is just bad TV.

Also, I've been inspired by the competitive spirit of the Olympics, embodied in its motto: citius, altius, fortius (swifter, higher, uh... more treehouselike?) . These guys need to go head to head. Toe to toe. With any luck, thumb to eyeball. The result must be conclusive... and humiliating. (As in, exactly like this blog is for me, but with more conclusiveness.)

Stay tuned for the finale. Jeff Probst to appear as guest blogger (could happen).

*