Everyone has their addictions. My addiction is having crushes on people with addictions. I have drooled over Scott Weiland's heroin-cut physique, Whitney Houston's crack antics, and Bret Michaels' penchant for cowboy hats and hookers. If there are drunk sluts fist-pumping in a club, lunatics ranting about the forthcoming apocalypse, teenagers having babies, or midgets doing anything on television, I'm glued to the screen, probably pantless, and covered in food crumbs from fisting pizza rolls into my mouth. My dad still has trouble figuring out how I can possibly watch any of these people and still maintain a strict devotion to the SyFy channel and John McClane. Perhaps living vicariously through these twats, I remain loyal to the reality television empire despite the eye rolls and heavy sighs thrown in my direction.
Billy the Exterminator: Reality TV's lowest class. And I have seen them all. From the early days of The Real World to my latest favorite, Bayou Billionaires, I have waded through the nastiest and skankiest of reality TV celebrity. None of these train wrecks, though, compare to the greatest gift to the genre since Brigitte Nielsen tongued Gollum Flava Flav: Billy the Exterminator.
Created in ‘09, Billy the Exterminator follows around Billy Bretherton and his family-run company, Vexcon, as he kind of exterminates things. Most episodes start with Billy and his brother, Ricky, driving around Louisiana until their mother calls them explaining how some critter is causing some ruckus for some hick in the middle of nowhere. Usually, Billy will give a brief explanation for why this a serious issue to address before they head off to the scene.
Once on site, Billy, always dressed head-to-toe in black leather, silver studs, and really thin sunglasses, will greet the homeowners who will undoubtedly spend more time gawking at him before telling the cameras how scary his clothes make him look. The dude looks like he belongs in a Nickelback video, but in the sweltering South that is an indication that you are about to be robbed and murdered. After a brief rundown of the situation, Billy and Ricky will grab whatever equipment is needed before tackling the vermin, all the while educating their audience on the products or techniques necessary for ridding pests.
What was Billy going to do? Was there going to be some sort of Q&A about pest control? Was he going to wrestle a gator?Just as the viewer is getting a little tired from all the pest control talk, Billy will start screaming at the camera like he's in Vietnam. Cameras are getting shaky, Ricky is hopping over the family dog, homeowners are getting riled up, and Billy is screaming Move! Move! like a bomb is about to go off. Just when you think you are about to see the Ed Hardy Twins fly through the air as a bomb explodes, mushroom cloud filling the sky, fire raining down all over the swamp, the camera pans over to whatever corner Billy was screaming from and captures the source of the scuffle: raccoon eyes. Or possum eyes. Or a snake. Or mice. Billy will immediately begin talking fast, a tad out of breath, stressing the danger of the situation because, you know, he could've died. Eventually, Billy and Ricky will capture the critters and either set them loose in the wild or relocate them to an education camp where children can poke at them and have their fingers bitten off.
Despite the show's boring portrayal of the pest control community, I was more than eager to fight off a couple of mulleted men for a spot in line when I heard Billy was going to be in Omaha at a car convention. He was slated to be on the "entertainment" stage for roughly five hours. Entertainment? For five hours? What was he going to do? Was there going to be some sort of Q&A about pest control? Was he going to wrestle a gator? Was somebody going to set a raccoon loose in the arena and watch as Billy captured it and then relocated it to some wooded glen by the Missouri River? I had to know. And, more importantly, I had to drag somebody along with me.
After all my friends claimed they were busy washing their hair or drinking heavily on their porches, I finally convinced my dad to join me for what was surely going to be the greatest day of our lives. We arrived at the convention center early to take in the cars before making our way to the stage. There were children everywhere decked out in Vexcon t-shirts and Billy the Exterminator fake soul patches. I thought I was a nutty fan, but these kids emulated Billy's facial hair, clearly the result of awesome parenting. The arena was full of Billy fans, but there was just one problem: no Billy. No stage. Finally, my dad found somebody with a nametag who informed us that Billy had missed his flight and was now driving up to Omaha and would be in town the next day.
A long line filled with skanky tween girls, kids in fake tattoos and leather, and grown men clinging desperately to Billy's headshot.Our hearts sunk. (I say "our" because I am 100% certain that my dad was, and still is, heartbroken.) Pissed off 10-year-olds all over the arena were also learning of the news and taking out their frustration on their bored parents. Missed his flight? Well, it is Louisiana. I bet planes are scarce there. One flight per day to Omaha is probably totally viable. I mean, people down there still own cannons and wave confederate flags. They aren't really that big into change. We exchanged our tickets for the following day and left with our heads down. (I think I saw my dad cry a little bit.) We could only hope that Billy would not disappoint us again.
The next day my dad was nowhere to be found, so I dragged my mom along with me. We made it to the convention center a little later in the afternoon, and we kept passing by kids with bags and pictures of Billy as they danced around the sidewalk praising Jesus that they finally got to meet their favorite person in the entire world. But I was worried as my mom and I exchanged the same glance: Did we miss him? If I had blown my second opportunity to see this man I was going to start shoving little kids into walls. As we made our way inside the first thing I noticed was something that was missing from the day before: a stage. And next to that stage was a long line filled with skanky tween girls, kids in fake tattoos and leather, and grown men clinging desperately to Billy's headshot.
He's here! He's here! He's finally here!
I made a beeline for the stage, not caring if I left my mother in the dust, and when I turned the corner to finally get a good look at the overenthusiastic exterminator of my dreams, my mouth dropped. I took careful steps and stood next to a 1950's Buick, directly in front of the stage where a man could be seen signing autographs, taking pictures, and chucking up the deuce. He was dressed in head-to-toe black leather, a miniature version of Slash's top hat, silver studs, and bling that matched his belt. He also appeared to be balding under the hat, with the hair that found its way out streaked red and black. And his skin looked grimy—not "out in the field exterminating critters" grimy, but "dipped in oil and dirt and meth ingredients" grimy. He also weighed about as much as my thigh.
There is no way this was Billy the Exterminator. Yeah, he's dressed to the T, but that was about it. Even other concerned parents were whispering what I was thinking. One dad, quickly putting down his son and positioning him behind his mother from the horror that surely awaited, walked over to Billy and took one long, good look at him. Finally, he turned back around and declared that the impostor signing autographs was right-handed and that the real Billy was left-handed. The dad and his family left quickly, clearly wanting no part in any of this.
I studied the impostor for a while. I really couldn't remember if he was left-handed, but, for all I knew, he could be ambidextrous. He did look ridiculously skinny, but there is a good chance he does meth. After all, they say the camera adds, like, 100 pounds. I really couldn't hear his voice too well from where I was standing, but at that point it didn't matter. Whether it was the real Billy or some drug addict a vendor paid to stand and sign autographs for five hours, the man standing before his fans could clearly draw a crowd. He drew a bigger crowd than the real Disney actress on the other side of the convention arena signing autographs for little girls and soccer moms.
My mom looked at me and asked if I wanted to wait in line. I said no. I didn't need an autograph or a picture, and I kind of didn't want to touch the guy, whoever he was. I just stood back and watched as all the people just like me waited in line for whatever reasons kept them there, and I secretly hoped a snake was slithering around somewhere so that Billy could dive into action, yelling at everyone to get back as he danced a dance he had many times before while women fainted, children screamed, and guitars wailed.