Last night while watching the final table of an online poker tournament that I should've been playing in, I was also browsing through tv channels when I came across a show called Cheaters. The premise behind the show, oddly enough, is on people that cheat in a relationship. One person in the relationship--the accuser--"hires" the tv show and their private investigators to tail the other--the suspected cheater. It's overly dramatic, and the person suspected of getting a little ass on the side is always cheating. It never fails and I loved it.

In one episode the camera crew followed a gay man and his "friend", plus another guy, into the bathroom of a public park. Oh yeah, it was at 1 in the morning. What do you think they're doing in their in the middle of the night? Communal, therapeutic pooping? Last time I checked that course wasn't in the Community Ed. bulletin. When confronted, the cheater threw the most stereotypical gay hissy fit I've ever seen, and I live above a gay-owned salon. If there's one thing a flamboyant man knows how to do, it's throw a tantrum.

I laughed.

In another episode, a man suspected his hot, very goddamn hot, girfriend of avoiding him because of another guy. I felt bad for the guy, because it was glaringly obvious to me that she was slumming it with him as her boyfriend. Think, not quite Liz Hurley, but not low-rent, either and that's what she looked like. He would never be able to do better than her. Hell, if I were the "other guy" in the situation, I'd, quite literally, jump at the chance to get with her, even with the knowledge that she's a cheat, whore, skank, skeeze and a trollop.

We only live once, right?

Anyhow, I got to thinking about cheating in relationships, and I'm going to be honest and say that I've only ever cheated on one girl in my life. That doesn't figure in all the girls that I wasn't technically dating, because that's a different story altogether. Of the girls that I've dated more than six months, though, it was only that one girl where my faithfulness went by the wayside. Looking back, I don't feel too bad about it.

The previous week we'd broken up over an argument that escalated to the point where she called me a "dumbass". In front of my Mom. My mother is a little woman, and my girlfriend at the time was not, but I know that dear ol' mum could've kicked her ass if only I'd said the word. Instead, I told her to get out of my life. A week later, I reluctantly took her back because, well, she was familiar and up until that point, the only girl I'd ever had sex with. In other words, I was young, stupid and horny. In my mind, though, I was already plotting another break-up and the only place I wanted to hang out with her was in my bed. Even then, I wanted her to leave after my 30 seconds of pleasure were through.

About a week after the reconciliation, I met a girl named Danielle. She was skinny, quirky, and a little bit of a skirt-wearing, patchouli wearing, stringy-haired hippy. By "little bit", I mean the exact opposite. She only wore skirts that doubled as tapestries, bathed in patchouli scented bath oils, and her hair looked like it had been washed, but never introduced the technological wonder that is the comb. But she was cute, flirted with me, and in case I forgot to mention it, she was skinny.

I justified my actions, which were only comprised of one make out session while we were both drunk, by telling myself that I was as good as out of my other relationship. Hey, I'm going to break up with her anyhow, so why wait for the inevitable? Being actually broken up is just a formality that I'd already gone through in my young head, so I didn't consider it cheating.

Of course it was cheating, and at the time, I felt bad. Now, not so much.

As the Cheaters hour wound down, I realized that if I ever suspected a girlfriend of cheating on me, the only way I'd be able to live with myself is if I called this show. What better way to humiliate someone that hurt you, than by exposing them for what they really are, all in front of an at-home audience comprised of tens of people? She'll never get another date now that she's known cheater! It doesn't matter that she's gorgeous, or that she's a self-proclaimed whiz with her tongue-ring, or even that she pulls in a 6 figure salary and likes her men to not have to work, so that they'll have enough strength to satisfy her after the workday is over. The only thing that matters is that now she's been exposed to everyone able to watch CBS M-F at 10am--face it, that includes every elderly person in the world, and not many others--or Sunday nights at 9pm--which includes pathetic people home alone on a Sunday night, which I'm sad to admit, was me.

Does anyone know where I can get the number for that second-rate Liz Hurley?

Hmm. And I do live close to a city park.