Bonus points: Guess which one was training to be a shaman?

Ah, The Millionaire Matchmaker. Anybody seen it? For those with lives, the Millionaire Matchmaker is Patti, a Muppity, self-loathing single gal who pairs pretty gold diggers with rich guys in an attempt to make lasting and worthwhile relationships. (Ahem.) The millionaires attend cocktail parties with gaggles of desperate, overgroomed women then choose one to take out on a real date. (As real as any date can be while surrounded by a camera crew.) The whole shebang is totally pimpy and objectifying and voyeuristic, which makes it perfect television for a lowest common denominator like me. Plus there's the fact that, back when it was just a dating service, I almost applied.

Seriously, there's no defense. I was living in LA and aggressively single. Money's never been my thing but the SoCal singles scene was a little underwhelming. Recent dates had included an obsessive-compulsive sports writer with a list of goals taped to the wall next to his futon ("Meet 10 friends") and a Moby-esque trustfunder who claimed to have lost his virginity to a pig, which he swore was common practice in his native South Africa. Frankly, dating a millionaire seemed like a step in an okay direction.

I'M GLAD I DIDN'T APPLY. Not that I would have gotten through the screening process anyway. (Patti says that men hate curly hair.) I wish I had the stories, though. Seriously, me on a date with a millionaire? Oh, ho, ho, the stoooories...