Before the train wreck which is ElimiDATE, before the benign 5th Wheel and before Taildaters, A Dating Story, Dismissed, Rendez-view and Shipmates… television had the granddaddy of all reality dating shows: Blind Date. The concept is simple; two strangers go on a date filled with inane activities, accompanied by idiotic bubbles providing commentary on their potentially amorous adventure.

People don’t tune in to see true romance, but to see people FAIL and/or look STUPID! (and occasionally “get busy”). Reality dating shows aren’t about true romance; they’re about making good television. And I think it can be agreed that I make good television. That’s why I must infiltrate Blind Date.

FIRST, SOME “REALITY” DATING PREPARATION:
1 Thong Speedo (that displays ample butt-crack)
1 Unzipped blue tracksuit top (with no shirt underneath, of course)
1 Large, gold “bling-bling” dollar sign chain
1 Pair of really high-cut jean shorts
1 Visor
1 Pair of aviator sunglasses (to be worn at all times)
1 Set of really cheap looking rings, one for each finger

I’m dressed like an Armenian landlord. I vow to not tell a single piece of true information the entire date. I’ll go by the name “Hank Bartholomew III.” Hank has trouble remembering the names of those he dates.

MY BLIND DATE FILMING DAY IS SET
I head to the Blind Date production office in L.A. The place is bustling with a swarm of men filling out applications to be potential Blind Daters.

“I’m here to date!” I announce to the room, signing a waiver stating they have the right to air anything (and can make me seem as stupid as) they want. And if I happen to get naked (it could happen), they can show it unscrambled on the Blind Date-Too Hot For TV DVD. I sign Hank’s name.

The casting director, an older-sister-type, escorts me into a small room for my video interview in front of a large Blind Date logo.

“Don’t hold back, I’ve heard it all,” she says with a wry smile.

There’s a problem with my Armenian landlord look. I “forgot” to read the Blind Date memo, which clearly states that I wasn’t supposed to wear blue.

“Can I do it with my shirt off?” I ask (fingers crossed).

The cameraman thinks about it. The verdict is “no.” I must wear a shirt for my video interview. Pulling on a tank top, the big-sister-type casting director begins her onslaught of personal dating questions.

“What kind of women are you attracted to?“ I’m asked.

“I like women with a big ol’ J. Lo booty,” I stress. “You know, something you can grip on to.” I grip my hands, adding, “Grrrrrrrr!”

“Do you want to date a wide variety of women?”

“Yes. Just as long as they have a big ol’ J. Lo booty. You know, with something to grip on to. Grrrrrrrr!”

“How do most of your dates go?”

“I would say, I end up having sex with 92% of the women I go out with. The other eight percent usually ends with second base…IF NOT MORE! [Pause] Especially if they have a big, ol’ J. Lo booty!”

The casting director presses further, “What’s your sexual turn on?”

“I like to do it German-style!”

“What’s German-style?” she asks (I thought she’s heard it all?)

“All I can say is, it makes you scream Achtung!”

Then I throw in a few kickboxing maneuvers and once again state my affirmation for big ol’ J. Lo booties (Grrrrrrrr!).

2PM, MY DATE BEGINS
Did you know it takes two large SUVs to film a Blind Date date? Each day, several four-person crews film three different dates for syndicated immortality. Our SUV is fully rigged with cameras to capture all dating action as it unravels.

The rules of filming are explained as I vigorously nod my head. (It goes without saying, don’t use the word motherf—ker as an adjective.)

“Try not to talk about movies and music,” says the field producer. “Don’t make any reference to the show. Just let the cameras be a fly on the wall.”

“A fly on the wall,” I repeat.

“And try not to talk to each other when we’re not filming.”

The field producer expounds as we make our way to the future Mrs. Hank Bartholomew III’s apartment, “The majority of people who come on Blind Date are wanna-be actors. And not very good ones at that.” He then goes on to tell a story about a girl from the previous week who ended her date by peeing standing up.

“Where was she from?” I ask, thinking I might know her.

“From Hell,” adds the bitter PA (who tells sordid tales of couples breaking into the bone-dance while filming in the SUV).

We pull up to my blind date’s apartment. She lives in what can best be described as “a Hollywood dump.” (My blind date is poor!) The crew sets up their cameras.

For a suave first impression, I’ve brought a few gifts: a $6.99 jug of blush wine (creating the inconvenience of her carrying it all day), a fake flower arrangement and a picture frame ($3.99) that says “I LOVE YOU!” (This might be a big claim, but I have a feeling we’re going to really hit it off!) Inside the frame, I’ve inserted a picture of me with an ex-girlfriend. I’ve put a red X through her head.

My blind date is put into place, to film that all-important first impression. I march towards the building, jug of wine in hand, as the cameras roll. She has long, dark hair. She turns around, revealing that she has massive meatpillows… and is working it.

“Whoa! Look at you,” I cry. “Woo!”

I present the jumbo jug of blush wine.

“This is for you. It’s wine, from Wine County!”

Though the container is three times larger than your average bottle of wine, my date is clearly not impressed.

“Oh, $6.99!” she snips, reading the price tag off the twist off cap.

“Yes, that’s the price,” I clarify, handing her the fake flowers and the picture frame. “That’s a picture of me. Disregard the fact that I’m with another girl.”

There’s a few beats of awkward silence, broken by her spouting, “Well, are you going to be a gentlemen and carry this bottle of wine?” Damn, I hadn’t thought about that.

We’re already having classic, zany Blind Date tension (what will the crazy Blind Date bubble say about that?). I make my excuses and grab the jug.

“LET’S DATE!” I exclaim, following with “DO YOU LIKE PIE?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of pie do you like?”

“Apple.”

Letting this sink in, I speak directly to the camera. “The date is already going really, really well,” much to the annoyance of the field director, who once again explains the filming rules.

HERE’S A TASK
The field producer makes me drive the camera-rigged SUV (through LA traffic), follow the other SUV and charm my date – ALL AT THE SAME TIME! Several times I lose the van, and we have to stop filming as someone from the crew tells me to turn around.

I find out my date (I don’t know her name yet) wants to be an actress (how surprising!) and works as a bartender. She, in turn, learns that I work as a motivational speaker who recently quit his job to pursue his dream of becoming a professional mime (studying in France under the master, Miou-Miou).

Then come the hard questions.

“Have you ever had to file a restraining order on any past boyfriends?”

“No.”

“When was the last date you went on?”

“Two days ago,” she perks. This upsets me.

“Oh, great! What’s his name? WHAT’S HIS NAME?!”

“Josh.”

“So this so-called ‘Josh’ is my rival, huh?!” I spew with disgust. My date (I still don’t know her name) refuses to give me his phone number so I can call him right now.

“Do you want to see how fast I can drive this SUV?” I tell her, punching the accelerator. The camera crew seems nervous. “Do you think Josh could drive this fast? Huh?!”

OUR FIRST ZANY BLIND DATE ACTIVITY
Not to knock the creative juices (and production budget) behind Blind Date, but our first big dating activity involves going to a park in Burbank and drinking from my large bottle of $6.99 blush wine.

“Okay, every time you drink, you have to tell a deep, dark secret about yourself,” I suggest.

My date (I have now learned she is called “Emma”) takes a swig of blush, and then, “Back in high school, I use to go dumpster diving.” (That’s craaaazy!)

We share a laugh. It’s my turn. I take a big slug of white zin, then look off into the distance.

“I once gouged a man’s eye out with my thumb!”

I immediately take another slug of wine. Game over.

MORE ZANY ACTIVITIES
Thank God we started drinking, because now I no longer have to drive the damn SUV; we get chauffeured around! I take time to swear a lot, so they’ll have to bleep it out. And then comes the bragging. “I do competitive eating contests,” I boast out of nowhere, as we sit in the back. “I can eat eight sticks of butter!”

We pull into a massage place in Burbank (I hate Burbank).

“Did you know [Blind Date host] Roger Lodge is only 4’9”?” I add. ”He’s a mere wisp of a man!”

The cameraman looks pissed.

“Okay, you guys were having great conversation, but we can’t use it, because you started to talk about the show.”

We go inside the massage place.

“I’m Peter, and the two of you will be getting massages today!” exclaims Peter, who will be giving us massages today.

I put down my large jug of vino and give Peter a big hug. He hugs back. I still hug Peter. He let’s out a nervous laugh and lets go. I keep hugging him.

“This is Brenda,” I say introducing my date.

“That’s Emma.”

“What-EVER!”

In a room separated by a curtain, we get naked under individual sheets and prepare for side-by-side massages. I make sure a good portion of my butt crack is showing, so it will need to be scrambled out.

They pull open the curtain and the massages begin. I use the time to impress Emma (I now know her name) with my extreme intellect.

“I used to study philosophy in college.” She’s intrigued. She sees a new side to me.

“I mostly studied Manwellian Discourses. Are you familiar with the philosopher Manwell?”

“No, I’m not.”

“The philosopher Manwell said, `Those that can’t, shall,’” I expound. “And those that shall, shan’t!”

She takes this in. We grow silent. The silence is broken by me accidentally seeing date-Emma’s naked butt and telling her so.

“Well, that’s the only time you’re going to get to see it naked,” she huffs in a you-go-girl fashion. (It’s more zany Blind Date tension)

Man, America’s going to think she is such a bitch (while I’ll come across as lovable).

DRESS TO IMPRESS!
Did you know that a men’s bathroom stall is what’s used as the changing room for the “dress to impress” portion of Blind Date.

I brought along a pair of traditional German lederhosen and mountaineering hat. They said “dress to impress,” but did they specify which country (or era in history)?! I think I succeeded.

I pull up my knee-length socks and fasten the last few straps of my lederhosen while giving a hard look into the mirror. (I resemble one of the Von Trapp children from Sound of Music.)

The field producer has a problem with my lederhosen.

“Are you putting me on? I think you’re just playing for the cameras.”

“No, this is how I ‘dress to impress,’” I explain. “I used to work for a German fashion designer in Struddlesburg, Germany. In fact, I designed these!”

He goes off to make a call and get lederhosen approval.

Just then, an old man in a cowboy hat comes into the bathroom. We stare at each other. Explaining is in order.

“Don’t worry, this is all a part of a TV show,” I say, realizing the two of us (man in cowboy hat, guy in lederhosen, standing by urinal) looks like a Village People video from another dimension. The producer comes back. Lederhosen-APPROVED!

With cameras in place, I jump the gate in front of the restaurant, spring in front of my date like Peter Pan, making my big lederhosen entrance.

“Mien Frau! Ich bin hungry. Let us go dine!”

There’s confusion.

“Why are you wearing lederhosen?”

“They’re really comfortable!” I stress, showing my range of motion.

We’re herded into a backroom of the restaurant (again, located in freakin’ Burbank). As a stationary camera rolls, and I fully utilize the drink tab on Blind Date’s expense (it’s fun to get drunk on television!) and get down to some serious dinner conversation.

“I’m not wearing anything under my lederhosen, you know,” I proclaim as date-Emma bites into her vegetarian Taco salad. “Would Josh wear lederhosen for you?”

Sadly, she said he would. (I hate Josh.)

Suddenly, the tables turn. The waiter snickers, bringing out a plate containing many sticks of butter.

“Well, you said you could eat eight sticks of butter,” snaps my blind date. “So, let’s see you do it!”

I look down at the sticks of butter. She’s called my bluff right here on national, syndicated late-night television! What can I do but jam an entire stick of butter into my mouth (then quickly spit it on the floor).

“I’m just warming up!”

I jam another whole stick of butter in my mouth and start talking politics.

“MMMmmmmmm!”

“Do you ever get out in public?” she sneers as I spit that stick of butter on the carpet, as well.

“There’s a serious side to me, too,” I try explaining, my face caked in butter.

“Oh, yeah? Well, then let’s see it!”

I clear my throat. I look into her eyes. My expression changes.

“I never struck before that hour,
With love, so sudden and sweet!
Her face, it bloomed like a sweet flower,
And stole my heart complete!”

Date-Emma’s complete demeanor changes. For the first time, on this whole entire date, she sees a serious side to Hank Bartholomew III.

She’s truly surprised.

“That was really sweet. Really, really sweet.”

She grabs my hand. We hold our gaze. Then I jam another whole stick of butter in my mouth.

THE COWBOY CROWD
It’s a goddamn cowboy bar! A country band will be playing soon. Before they do, my blind date has become my muse. I jump onstage and grab one of the mics.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am here from syndicated television’s Blind Date,” I explain, trying to pimp some applause. The redneck crowd mildly responds. “I’d like to take this opportunity to sing a very special song I wrote in honor of my date.”

Again, more light applause. The cameras roll. I clear my throat. Date-Emma looks up with admiration. I hold the mic very close to my mouth. I start loudly screaming her name over and over again, like I’m in horri-fic pain.

“EMMA! EMMA! EMMA! EMMA!”

Confusion, then anger spreads across the crowd.

“EMMA! EMMA! EMMA! EMMA!”

I keep doing this until, I sh-t you not, the PA system blows out. It’s on late night television if you don’t believe me.

SADLY, OUR DATE IS OVER BY 10PM
Now what would being on Blind Date be without securing the good night kiss at the door (accompanied by a crazy bubble summing up our entire dating experience)? Even though I’ve mentally tormen-ted this poor woman the entire evening, I still bet I can turn the tables (for the sake of good TV).

“I had a really good time, blah, blah, blah, etc…”

Victory is mine! We share a close-mouthed kiss for the entire 5-SECOND DURATION. (In your face, Josh!) Then I pipe up for better TV.

“I have a confession to make. I’m not really a millionaire with a yacht.”

Before she can respond, I lick her face and run away. The camera follows me for the famous post-date solo shot. (What WILL the stupid bubble say?).

Suddenly, dozens of little Latino children come running out of nowhere; we’re surrounded. We have become minor celebrities of the entire cul-de-sac.

“They’re on Blind Date! They’re on Blind Date! Are you going to marry her? Are you going to marry her?!”

Because of the fanfare, we have to move to a different neighborhood for our one-on-one with the camera, and most importantly, sharing with the Blind Date viewing audience whether there’ll be A SECOND DATE!

“Hank was a lot of fun! Yes, I would definitely go out with him again!” my date tells the camera.

It’s my turn. The camera rolls.

“I’d rather be hit in the back of the head with a SHOVEL than go out with her again!”

Whether it’s true or not, it makes for good TV!

Harmon Leon is the author of The Harmon Chronicles. His newest book, Scam America, will be out soon.