The septic new dating show A Double Shot at Love With the Ikki Twins (MTV, Tuesdays at 10 p.m. ET) follows on the fuck-me heels of A Shot at Love With Tila Tequila, a single-elimination tournament wherein skanks of both sexes vied for the heart of a moderately greasy bikini model. On Double Shot, the objects of affection are Erica and Victoria Mongeon, calendar girls known to a discerning elite as Rikki and Vikki, the “Ikki twins”—avowedly bisexual and, obviously, monozygotic. According to their online biography, Rikki came out of the womb a few moments earlier, and they came out of the closet almost simultaneously while waitressing at Hooters. It’s no threat to their dignity or ours if we don’t bother distinguishing between them.
In the introduction, the Ikki twins, who meet the minimum requirements of generic hotness, briefly reviewed their joint career. Photos slid past, demonstrating their talent for standing next to Corvettes and proudly clenching hockey sticks. They clarified that each is looking for the love of her life here on MTV, saying in stereo that they don’t intend to share. They explained the evening’s twist. In this initial episode, as in David Cronenberg’s Dead Ringers, the protagonists would pretend to be one person. Then the thwomp of rotors ripped through the inky sky outside the Ikki manse. Here was a pair of helicopters, each dangling a cargo crate. One, lined in pink polyester, bore a dozen “sexy lesbians.” The other, decorated in blue, held 12 “hot straight guys.” Each crate featured a disco ball.
The ladies romped out of their holding pen, so crazed with thirst that they immediately began doing body shots. Nikki took the first turn mingling while Mikki hid herself away to watch the action on a monitor. The twins share a numbingly low idea about what is attractive or meaningful or halfway interesting. One contestant was praised as “super-superhot, like, stepped-out-of-a-magazine hot,” which would only be true if we’re talking Field & Stream. Later, Doohikki snuggled by a fire pit with a dude who worked his rap thusly: “I don’t know if I’m hot because of you or because we’re sitting by the fire, but I know you’re hot.” Her impression? “He’s definitely smooth.”
The twins insist on the cast’s sex appeal relentlessly, pleading with the audience to disbelieve its libido. Still, the slatternly attire and attitudes of the women will suffice to captivate the core demographic—that is, semi-tumescent ninth-graders and the girls who seek their attention by making out with other girls at keg parties. On the other hand, there must be a few genuine lesbians among Double Shot’s constituency; tackiness doesn’t discriminate.
In the “Petting Zoo” segment, the female contestants don lingerie and tails and snouts to strut around a mock barnyard as kitties, piglets, ducklings, donkeys, and such. Watching it, I held depression at bay by hoping, as never before, that a reality show might inadvertently radicalize some militant feminists. At least the women on Double Shot boast stable jobs in the service sector (bartender, personal trainer, dominatrix, lifeguard). The men, mooks that they are, are a shadier lot. There’s a party promoter, a club promoter, a “Wall Street sales rep” who lives in Massachusetts. “Boston accents are wicked sexy,” Gimmikki said.
Double Shot offers cynicism without irony and nihilism without surcease. It gives trash TV a bad name. It’s so patently deplorable that it’s not even any fun to deplore. So let us appreciate its lone moment of self-consciousness, a line from the montage of highlights of the soul-corroding season ahead. One of the male bimbos smirks at the camera: “This house is full of surprises. And douche bags.”
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