OH, ARE YOU KIDDING ME???!!!

Ambre. I don't believe it.

Wait. Let me backtrack. First, I don't believe I've been watching Rock of Love II with Bret Michaels for... however long it's been on. Every single stinking show. What I couldn't catch live, I TiVo'ed, because there's nothing I enjoy more than ripping through commercials with a fast-forward button.

NOTHING!

Part of the draw of watching the show week after week was that there was an eliminated contestant every night, and an end in sight. It was like having a really bad heroin problem, but knowing the exact day someone was going to stage an intervention and throw your ass in rehab. You love the sweet H, but you're also really, really looking forward to the day you can puke it all out of your system.

I don't even LIKE rocker boys. I can't STAND men with long hair. Long, schmong, I can't even remember the last time I dated a guy with HAIR, PERIOD.

Bret Michaels. I don't know what's come over me. Maybe it's the lipstick. I do appreciate a nice gay boy. But when Poison was big, I was... making fun of people who liked Poison. And listening to the Sex Pistols, ripping holes in all my clothes, and raging against the suburban machine. With appropriate and heartfelt teenage angst. Not 80's hairsprayed, stonewashed-jeaned stupidity, mind you. Bret Michaels. Jesus.

But now I'm 36, and glued to the TV every Sunday at 9pm. There, VH-1, I just did your demographics research for you. I'm your target market. Not only will I devote my life to your show, I'm gearing up for Rock of Love III, The Death of Ambre, when I will be dragging my whiny and unwilling gum-cracking middle-aged girlfriends to the next auditions. And we'll all be wearing hooker heels and screeching about our careers.

Personally, I'm excited that out of that roiling chlamydic sea of plastic-boobied strippers, his 44-year old ass chose the 37-year old with a job. Hooray for the old chicks.

But, oh, Daisy. You were my pick. You pint-sized whore with lips that could have held countless potato chip bags together, how I loved you. Feisty and dumb. Every time you opened your mouth, it was like watching a platypus suddenly burst into conversation. Not sure of the language, can't really get the consonants out of that duck bill of yours, but absolutely determined to try and speak.

You, egg-laying, otter-footed semi-aquatic mammal, I will miss you most of all.