Fucking Day: Game of Clones

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Channel 4. My muse. My guiding moonlight. What visions do you have for me?

My guiding moonlight, that says less than nothing. Are you out of visions? Or shit in general? It’s okay to ask for help, dark master.

I’d ask when evil genies lost their touch. Most kids can finish this Twilight Zone prompt in crayon. But I still have faith. The timestamp says you have a second idea.

I take it back. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why do this, or anything else you’ve done? I’m going home, where no one’s creative enough to sink this far.

Oh no, fuck that. Back to Channel 4. I’ll take the original flavor, without Jersey Shore alumnae. At least everyman desperation has texture. There’s no mystery to a Pauly D. I know he’d empty an M80 into a hospital for a sitcom cameo. The people can still surprise me.

Besides, I wasn’t fair earlier. A digital filter for age, sex, race, religion, height, education, monogamy, fitness, distance, politics, three worthless prompts, and attraction might make some money. And let us repeat one first date forever. What’s yours? I aimlessly roam the park. I’ve named the tree lawyers like trauma-dumping at. It’s Clyde.

A liar might call this a reverse Naked Attraction. Like the narrator. He claims, with glee, that fetish dress codes take looks out of the equation. For all the vacuity, that’s today’s worst sin. It rhymes with “I don’t know where the bodies are.”

As for impact, it’s a reverse Naked Attraction. While there’s only one home-grown season, spinoffs hit the U.S., Brazil, and Germany. I look forward to the Game dos Clones and Ein Klon zum Verlieben crossover. In time, all tv will be Game of Clones. Just a little more literal.

Or they’ll ditch the title altogether. These days, only furious preteens have Westerosi names. If a girl scout bites you after smelling nerd, that’s a Daenerys. Expect a renaissance of classical bullying.

Not sure why. Game of Clones ran right before its namesake’s last two seasons. Marquee coattails like that could sustain anything. But there’s just the one season. As if someone shit the bed so violently it killed an unrelated show on another continent.

When I’m dead. On to the first contestant!

Charlotte kicks off the show, so we’ll start there.. Art daycares dislike imitative fallacy, but you can’t trust anyone with Sallie Mae’s card. She takes longer to go mad with power, which gives us more to talk about. Charlotte’s a hostess, here to find love/followers/a diversion from death’s shadow. Or, in her words:

Oh, sorry. Our narrator’s a bit overbearing. He undercuts everyone, including himself. Here’s Charlotte’s thoughts, sans punched-in snark:

Lord.

Cardboard pop blares over the episode intro, and isn’t the worst sound present. The narrator owns that honor. He never stops talking or starts thinking. He hates everyone onscreen but for none of the many valid reasons. If a clone hits a joke, he “no, buts” them with a shittier joke. His voice sounds like an impression of an ex that took the house. And for all his hosting sins, he refuses to be silent long enough for you to hate everything else. Was that the plan? Congratulations.

Let’s try to talk about Charlotte’s harem.

She’s hyped, and why wouldn’t she be? Her followers will love this, and she can’t hear the narrator. As for inhumanity, I do worse every time I get a phone. Charlotte builds her hot mannequin with clarity.

The editor gives her a Tina Belcher quirk. She probably spent an hour tweaking elbows and S.P.E.C.I.A.L. points, but we have meat to find. Charlotte’s meat parameters are, per her and the voiceover:

Buyer beware: nerdy black fashion victims tend to be flakey. Squat time’s precious. Nonetheless, Channel 4’s warlocks bring Charlotte’s VRChat design to the public. Their science pushes the limits of the N64.

Bullshit offer? Likely. But solid ad for the show itself. Branding has its own laws, known as “lying” among laypeople. After branding to our faces, the show collects eight players. Some faces are off-model, but you know how publicly-owned entities are about matching descriptions.

And the uniforms go a long way.

To hell. The numbered uniforms really close the gap to hell. Or at least a stylish vault. The scene’s just as weird for the contestants, who miss Tinder’s gentle, humanizing touch. Charlotte’s horny funhouse mirror shows one personality trait: panic response. There are two paths in a self-inflicted shitstorm:

I aspire to the second, but I’ve never been a harem clone or thought those words before. Charlotte has—she and the host say “clone” constantly, long after we know their names. While no dating show cares about pairing people off, this fine-tuned making seven enemies.

In fact, two players eliminate themselves. Three if you count non-efforts.

The game…the game! I should explain the game. The title game combines stupidity and filler into five lost days. Mine, not the players’ week together. Each round, after two glorified icebreaker games, Catherine sends one snapback home. For example, two strategies dominate the first game: dead parents and stripping. Quality news for jacked orphans.

Losers go to The Dumping Room to beg for more airtime, while the others lower their New Eras for the fallen. But one clone with social skills wins a solo date in the cramped, heavily surveilled “Love Mobile.” Sadly, Catherine visibly and fairly dislikes the Love Mobile. So you should do well, but not so well you win the sabotage box. It’s love’s blue shell.

Two players get cocky after limp kisses in the Love Mobile. Catherine hates the Love Mobile. Both players lose. Focus on this paragraph. Tease out its secrets. You’re now ahead of every dating coach on Terra.

Right, the narrator’s still kicking around. He has some thoughts.

One thought.

Get it yet?

Twenty episodes of “Action? Why not opposite?” and my mind dies. Out of all the sociopaths and clones, only the host is at risk of dying alone. He’s in the Dumping Room of my soul.

Most color commentary imitates watching with a friend. Game of Clones imitates a drunk in a theater. Ignoring his word vomit is possible, but a waste of a living buddha’s time. There’s plenty of suffering to tend to, unless you sell hurricane insurance or hospital-seeking missiles.

Worst yet, he misses the easiest joke. After days waxing about personality, here’s the winning strategy.

For the players? Fine. For television? New frontiers of pointless. For the prompt? Pure branding.

Let’s escalate.

Charlotte and her harem thought in complete sentences. Now we can get stupid. Our season ends with Tom. You can pin his fixation, even if you skim my photoshop barrage. There are three options.

He’s a basic artiste with an e. Tom’s crafting Barbie, his mother, or–

Same as it ever was.

Well, the broad strokes are. With the jacket, I can’t shake one image.

That’s from Daria, a formative distraction for fossils my age. You don’t have to know it. Just that Tom knows it. And that her boyfriend in the show is named Tom. I don’t know if he, the producers, the players, or the universe are fucking around. But I hope someone here is branding. Otherwise I’m losing my mind.

We used up the fashion frames in Catherine’s harem, but Tom copes. Here’s his abridged criteria:

Like most young men, Tom handles absolute power pretty well. He opens The Games with Twister. If you don’t bend as well as the other Personalities, you’re going home.

There’s whiplash: Catherine needed three episodes to turn heel, and Tom snaps in the character editor. He’s named his Sultanate before the harem reveal party. Twister just manifests the storm within. If Catherine had a circus, Tom’s got a cult.

The last place Darias are Ailis and Doomed, who duel in the Dumping Room. The show calls it the Dumping Room. Ailis argues that she hasn’t gotten an ass in edgewise, but will get less shy with more screentime. The editors have found their underdog, and Lord Tom spares Ailis. Doomed shuffles off to another audition.

Ailis resolves to stand out.

I can’t explain it, but she’s invested in Game of Clones. And either a branding ace or somewhat genuine. Maybe that’s love. Maybe you shouldn’t be allowed on reality tv before 25. These nuances are tough for me, since my mind wanders to Ahriman, a space marine that’s also an evil wizard. Some confuse him for Magnus the Red, but Ahriman’s more tragic. Trying to save his brothers turned them into magic robots. Anyway, Ailis is sad or something.

From here, it’s pretty tense. On one hand, Tom is physically and personally attracted to our heel champion Lucy, who dresses this way off-camera. She might not know there’s a show. Lucy hasn’t smiled in a year starting with 2. She’s about that unlife. Tom likes lines, and hers lead to the grave.

On the other hand, they have five episodes to fill. Leading to the narrator’s bleak, endless reign. A realm of filler that would make Physical 100 balk. I understand Lucy, because I’m in hell. Imagine Woody Woodpecker narrating every morning in Waco but the big one.

But who takes it? There’s no prize money, and they’re strangers outside of the elimination harem. But people like winning, and Ailis likes Tom, so that question bloats into an episode. Three finalists (Ailis, Lucy, and No Chance) wait alone for an answer. One meets Tom. The others get heartfelt gifts.

Why do it this way? Why make this show at all? Why are we still fixated on Elvira? Good questions. Have you considered fucking yourself? There’s plenty of reading material on the matter.

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