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I hate reality TV….so I left the room and started washing dishes last night when my wife switched to the debut of Bounty Girls Miami – on Court TV.
I could heard from the kitchen as they introduced these women – dressed in lycra and leather — talking about bringing in the bad guys. Dumb.
But then came the second segment. Jag, the lead babe bounty hunter, showed a picture of her next victim, a guy who had been busted for possession of coke. His wife wanted him hauled in. Bounty: $5000. My wife called out: “It’s Curtis.”
Turns out the second segment on this born-to-die show was the one-time Miami restaurant magnate, Curtis Whitticar, who lived just behind me in Miami Shores. He said on film that he’d had a dependency problem since age 10 and that he was in treatment.
Bizarre. Then, suddenly, a whole lot of neighborhood weirdness made sense to me. Just a month ago Curtis, his super-kind PhD wife, and their two beautiful daughters rented their house to a bunch of restaurant people, loaded up a mobile home, and headed off to see America.
I guess their departure was thanks to the new show.
