Man, long time, no blog. And so many shows to catch up on. Starting with "The Apprentice." In a year, nobody will remember the name of the winner, Bill Rancik. But I guar-rawn-tee we'll still be hearing about Omarosa. The wicked witch of Trump Tower has supplanted Richard Hatch as the lyingest, cheatingest player on a TV reality show. Don't you love it when truly despicable people delude themselves into thinking the world loves them? When you look at Omarosa, she's all preening and beaming in self-love, unaware that her image to the rest of us is less than shiny-happy.

"Survivor" rocks on. Rupert's still hanging in there. Give it two more weeks before he's ousted. No way can Boston Rob win, but he's fun to watch, ain't he?

Can't stand the new "Bachelor." And is it really that hard for a handsome pro football player to get dates? He has to go on a TV show to meet women?

"High School Reunion" on The WB is a howl, but hard to find on the skedj. There are some skanky ho-types on it (all from Round Rock, Texas) who are forever stripping to the altogether and romping into the surf. There's no point to this show at all, other than showing 20-somethings crying, drinking, arguing and cavorting in an attempt to look even stupider to each other than they did 10 years before in high school.

I miss "America's Next Top Model." Yoanna, what are you doing right this minute? Shandi, my darling, have you reunited with the hideous hick back home and taken that triumphant strut throught the aisles of Walgreen's? Sigh.

"Real World" had its "very special episode" last week about the redhaired chick's problem with "cutting." Faced with emotional upheavals, Frankie takes a butcher knife into the bathroom and slices into herself like a butcher carving coldcuts. (Audio provided by MTV, yuk.) On the episode, she saw a therapist (a wrinkled old bat whose advice seemed derived from a 1950s Dear Abby column) and had a good cry. Maybe she'd feel better about herself if she didn't have pink hair, a squillion piercings in her face and eyeliner thicker than Liz Taylor's Cleopatra drag. And Frankie, dear, your taste in men rivals Liza's.

Next blog, "The Swan." I just can't go there yet.