I’ve had this amused fascination with Bret Michaels’ VH1 show “Rock of Love,” mostly because it’s 2009 and people still treat this guy like he’s important.

I will say I was sort of impressed by his ability to keep his career going, despite making horrible music for many many years. He makes wheelbarrows of money from his show and gets to pretend it’s still 1987 by surrounding himself with extremely stupid, plastic women who seem to actually think he wants one of them to be his girlfriend. For a while, it’s gotta be fun to have strippers and other mentally paralyzed rock chicks fight over who gets to have sex with a 45-year-old guy with hair extensions.

I love this country.

Let’s face it — every man has some sort of fantasy of getting to pick among a bunch of women who worship the ground he walks on. Well, except for me … because I have a wife who reads this blog. So that makes it kind of fun to watch for both of us.

But I think I’ve finally had enough. This — the third season of keeping alive the farce that one of these dopes will be his silicone-filled Miss Wonderful — has finally done me in. It’s like going into the Museum of Death in Hollywood with your friends. You all kind of laugh at the first few pictures and exhibits, thinking it’s all a lot of silly fun. But the deeper you go, the more affected you are. By the time you leave, you’re utterly horrified by humanity and feel like you’re going to throw up.

Just like when you get halfway through the third season of Rock of Love.

The fact is these are all extremely bad people. The women are so nasty to each other — and I love a good catfight as much as anyone — that it makes you wonder how the hell this guy can even pretend the show is real, even if he is having a lot of sex with all of them. And I don’t care how much money he’s making; at some point he has to just want to rip out his hair extensions, line them all up, and kill them.

Now that would be good TV …