The brazen allure of "Rock of Love" and the "Girls Next Door" reality television programs is dominating the collective reality television-watching subconscious, or at least my own. 

"Rock of Love" (currently in season two) features Bret Michaels, long-haired sex symbol and lead singer of the rock group Poison, looking for love in all the wrong places: namely, between the legs and under the shirts of some 20-odd wannabe-rock star's girlfriends.

 "Girls Next Door," features Hugh Hefner as the definitive bachelor swathed in maroon satin, surrounded by a montage of busty and presumably talented young blondes.

Competition, travel, partying, sex, catfights, celebrity, partial nudity, beautiful women and confident men... what's not to love?What sets these shows apart from the rest of reality love show failures, such as "Scott Baio is 46...and Pregnant," "My Fair Brady," "Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica," "Meet the Barkers," "Britney and Kevin: Chaotic" and "The Bachelor"?

The actors appear to be having one hell of a great time. Viewers have come to realize that much of reality television is indeed scripted. Therefore, they have come to expect a tantalizing plot. Most viewers need only look to the man in the Lay-Z-Boy chair to their left or open the window facing the neighbor's house, should they choose to witness a "real" couple's argument.

Should one choose to turn on "Rock of Love" or the "Girls Next Door," one is not forced to bear witness to tempestuous couple fights, distinctly shrill due to the camera's presence. There is little discussion of serious negative emotion. There is, in fact, no discussion of emotion on "Rock of Love", other than the increasingly banal (but ever-gratifying) montage of "I love him more. I feel a connection. I want him. This is fun! I am sexier. Look: they bounce! He is mine. I am jealous of her. She touched him with her boobies. We were meant to be together. I'll just show him my butt, then."

Similar thought sequences are presumed of the "Girls Next Door," who, to more convincing effect, express these thoughts with increasingly peaked expressions and furiously crossed arms (as well as with much bum and breast exposure).

Competition, travel, partying, sex, catfights, celebrity, partial nudity, beautiful women and confident men... what's not to love?

If the people being paid for sharing their version of a love god are happy with their lot, who are we to judge? Let the love gods receive their supplicants. Let us sit back and watch their ministrations.