It’s an image of the worst kind of scum. And, oddly, I don’t mean Casey Anthony.
I am the husband of a social worker. I am the son of a substance abuse specialist. To say I loathe Dr. Drew is an insult to the word “loathe.” I see him and I want to vomit. Then I want to stomp on my vomit, vomit atop my vomit and stomp some more. He is the worst kind of opportunist—a “therapist” in name only.
Dr. Drew has a magical ability to diagnose people from afar—oftentimes without even meeting them. He can gauge their personalities; their ambitions; their motivations. All via television. It’s astonishing, in a all-I-want-to-do-is-have-you-recognize-me-in-an-airport sort of way. I’d go so far as to call Dr. Drew the Skip Bayless of his genre—no substance, no depth, no moral compass. Just a dude wanting to be famous.
That said, Skip limits himself to sports. Dr. Drew actually has the nerve to take people in desperate need to private help and slap them around on television. To watch Celebrity Rehab is to witness to worst kind of 21st century media evil: The need to be famous merging with cries for help. These are people who have been cut and slashed and burned by stardom; who—I’m guessing—would be 8,000 times better served to not have their recoveries broadcast to the world. Yet Dr. Drew does just that: Makes private matters public; exposes and uses.
He is the whore of therapists; an insult to an incredibly important profession.