My own fear factory

“Fear FACTOR,” the NBC gross-out reality show that has conveniently created a secondary market for food-grade maggots and unappetizing organ meats, recently announced a new twist. This summer, the show will shoot 22 “home invasion” stunts, in which producers will pop in on residents of such destinations as L.A., New York and Dubuque, Iowa, so that they might have the chance to munch tarantulas in the comfort of their own living rooms.

I’ve never been a “Fear” fan, but I’m here to give the show’s producers an all-access pass to my house. In fact, I’ll provide my own stunts. My dogs have helpfully built a minefield in the backyard with their “contributions”; there are Japanese beetles swarming the kitchen like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie; I’m sure there’s something terrifying in the bottom of the laundry hamper; and then there’s the stuff in back of the refrigerator that is surely as nausea-inducing as any other food challenge they’ve ever featured.

To sweeten the deal, producers should know I don’t care how paltry the prize money they have to offer might be. I’ve eaten from the mystery Tupperware many a time with absolutely no financial incentive whatsoever.

Sadly, I doubt “Fear” is going to utilize any home-grown grossness for the show, instead wheeling in the usual extra-strength bungee cords and pickled horse innards they always use. And that is, fundamentally, the problem with “Fear Factor.” Maybe the show’s producers have much nicer lives than I do, but I suspect most people have plenty of fascinating (or simply icky) stuff hidden just out of sight that would make for more interesting small-screen drama than the show’s worn-out parade of bugs, guts ‘n’ stunts.

I guess there’s some excitement in watching a contestant drive a truck through a wall of fire or eat a live tarantula, but if you want to see real terror, watch a homeowner try to outrun the West Nile-infected mosquitoes that have been lurking under his pool cover for the last six months. Now that’s fun.

But then, I’ve never been “Fear Factor’s” target demographic, which seems to be 10-year-old boys who get a charge out of seeing attractive people in swimwear choke down muskrat eye milkshakes. When I want a reality fix, I lean toward stuff like “Clean Sweep” and “What Not to Wear.”

Sure, these shows don’t have “Fear Factor’s” barfy thrills, but they make me feel a heck of a lot better about my life. Yes, my backyard may soon qualify as a Superfund site thanks to my canine friends, but at least I haven’t been hording empty toilet paper rolls for the last 20 years or wearing stained sweat pants to business meetings.

I’d love to see “Fear Factor” try a few crossover episodes with these self-improvement-oriented shows. Want to make sure that a poorly dressed slob doesn’t fish that ratty sweatshirt out of the reject pile? Make her eat it!

Got a homeowner who can’t give up that gargoyle collection for a yard sale? Fine, but he’ll have to jump across a pit of live crocodiles to rescue each ugly figurine, one at a time.

What better way to reinforce lifestyle changes? Sure, giving people wardrobe makeovers and room remodels is warm and fuzzy, but you can bet they won’t backslide into their bad behavior after they’ve had a post-traumatic stress disorder flashback or two.

Of course, it’s only a matter of time before hybrids like these actually hit the air. Reality television has become increasingly desperate to find freaky new angles to update what is clearly an exhausted genre. To wit: We have “The Real Gilligan’s Island,” which confusingly has two teams of costumed castaways (Hey, I see two Gilligans! And two Professors! Wait, have I been drinking?) competing for a cash prize. I guess there’s some retro nostalgia value to the show, but it really seems to be an excuse to get a pair of Mary Anns and Gingers wrestling in whipped cream.

Then there’s “Dancing With the Stars,” which allows C-list celebrities to step on the toes of professional dancers. While I never wanted to see “Bachelorette” Trista Rehn on my TV again, it’s worth it to get ballroom dancing on prime-time television somewhere other than Bulgaria, even if it’s just for a summer.

Another summer show, “Hit Me Baby One More Time,” combines “American Idol” with a VH1 “Bands Reunited” twist. Technically, the show is supposed to benefit the charity of the winner’s choice, but it’s an excuse for us to marvel at how our favorite singers of the 1980s have bloated.

So, no wonder “Fear Factor” can’t rely on a couple of vats of scorpion eggs and bat spit to bring in the ratings anymore. In the interest of helping out, I urge the producers to come by my house. At the very least, they can haul away some yucky stuff for upcoming episodes. I’ll do anything for a clean refrigerator.

Liane Bonin can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.