OK. What idiot would want such a job?
As noted at the beginning, we're more inclined to think "What idiot wouldn't?" What LUSA offers to potential participants (and ultimately, viewers) is validation of their existences through popular notoriety (namely, an appearance or appearances on television). The desire – nay, the need – for such validation is evident in the continuing popularity of daytime talk television programming, and now, increasingly, reality-based television shows. Look at the daytime formula: the common, the ignorant and the ugly volunteer to parade publicly the more sordid elements of their dirty laundry for our amusement. At first glance, it seems like a glimpse into a different world – a world without judgment, accountability or restraint – a place where ignorance and evasion of responsibility rule. The key is that the illicit affairs, betrayal, and general personal negligence that are often involved mirror in milder and less melodramatic ways, some of the things that we have going on in our lives, or at least in our sub-consciousness. Thus, these reprobates act out our fantasies for us, but do so in such a garish and trashy manner that, by the end, it becomes a cautionary tale that validates our own decisions to resist such behavior – or at least to keep it toned down. In the end, everyone wins: they get to be TV stars (if only for a day or two – unless of course they make Talk Soup, or even better, a $19.95 "Best of...Uncensored!" highlight reel), and we get to say "God, I might fuck up from time to time, but at least I'm not him/her!"

The catch, however, is that we want to be TV stars, too. That's root of reality TV's evil. Producers of such fare prey on this desire by taking "normal, everyday people" that look only slightly better than we do and putting them into challenging situations with each other for our viewing pleasure. Although the action is highly orchestrated (and necessarily so, just for the sake of logistics alone), the true illusion is created in the premise: the participants are not actors. Instead, they are pulled from society's rank and file. Where we reside. The overwhelming notion of "Hey, that could be me!" coupled with the trumped up melodrama, proves irresistible to us twenty-somethings. Problem is: it really couldn't be you. The participants on these shows are screened even more thoroughly than actors are at auditions. Personality tests. Screen tests. Interviews. You name it. Like any actor or actress, these people must fill pre-determined roles established by an exclusive cadre of producers and network types. In the end, the average person has no better chance making it through the extended application process than they do making through a casting call for any other television program. Either way, you basically still have to be discovered out of a throng of random people. You still have to fit into one of the roles or molds determined by the demographic research. AND you still have to have that certain je ne sais quoi that differentiates everyone who is famous from, well, you.

Oddly enough, reality TV is the crack cocaine of the fame game, offering the fastest track of any other pursuit in the entertainment industry, because applicants need not possess ANY skill whatsoever, as opposed to an actor or musician, who must be able to perform on at least some basic level.

As you can see, both the daytime and reality TV phenomena have both inspired and paved the way for the talentless, yet still aspiring, masses to seek their satisfaction. For this reason, we expect the LUSA candidate pool to be quite robust.

But really, what types of people do you expect to apply?
While we are anticipating applicants from all walks of life, the following are social sub-groups that we expect will be represented heavily:

• Salespeople (all kinds)
• People with vanity plates
• Aspiring pro wrestlers
• Pro wrestling fans
• Backwards visor wearers
• Arcade junkies
• Fans of the rock group Weezer
• Carrot Top
• The borderline morbidly obese (those still too mobile to warrant profiling on daytime TV)
• Comic book store clerks
• "Cat in the Hat" hat wearers
• Youngest girls in families of all girls
• Bald-headed club bouncers
• Every fucking struggling actor and actress on earth
• Jesse Camp

Not only do I fall into one of the above categories, but this sounds great! How do I apply?
Just e-mail us at mtkooi@twentyfive.net and we will rush a candidate info pack out to you.

Can LUSA resign, or be impeached?
Oh, no. No no no. Not on his or her fucking life.

Actually, this whole thing sounds like a cheap amalgamation of all the reality programs currently on the air. Couldn't you just hold a "Tournament of Champions" composed of the winners of each show and accomplish the same thing?
No. Although you are pretty much right on the money, the kind of cooperation necessary between the competing networks precludes such a tournament. Besides, we have the Pusher.

The Pusher sounds like a great job. How can I apply?
Thank you for your interest, but the position of Pusher will be filled internally. However, if you have already gone through the trouble of making an audition tape, in which you shove various unsuspecting people in the back, feel free to send it along.

Isn't it possible, after weeks and weeks of mean spirited abuse, that the public will begin to sympathize with LUSA?
Under normal circumstances, yes. But don't forget: LUSA will still be on TV, shamelessly trying to become famous, while viewers will be without that opportunity.

What about Gen X types? Won't LUSA become just the type of ironic, anti-establishment icon that slackers, college kids and actual losers will flock to and rally behind?
Actually, that's what we're counting on. Otherwise, where will the merchandising money come from?

Aren't you afraid that rejected candidates, driven by jealousy and addicted to the spotlight, may attempt to remain in the public eye through a series of dangerous, ill-conceived and embarrassingly pathetic stunts?
Well, let's put it this way: There is no such thing as bad publicity.