So, I finally got around to watching the season finale of The Hills this week. (Although definitely a guilty pleasure, it’s not a show I can bring myself to make time to watch.) And I must say, it never ceases to amaze me how much these girls get paid to sip lattes, sigh and suck face halfheartedly with boys they are contractually obligated to pursue.

I mean, I get the concept. Trail some (far too) privileged girls in Los Angeles and you’re bound to catch some titillating footage. Or at least some footage of tits. But the success of the show — they’ve confirmed a sixth season, for serious — has me wondering whether my friends and I should petition MTV for our own pilot.

I’ve already come up with a name: Real Poor Postgrads. It might not attract the cult following of the network’s newest gem, Jersey Shore, but that’s alright with me. The pilot episode might look something like this (I do not speculate; this really happened):

It’s a Friday night and a crew of twentysomethings still on their parents’ cell phone plans are crowded around a Coinstar machine, emptying out the recesses of their designer purses for the night’s booze money. After scraping together enough for a bottle of Skyy, someone finds a ten-dollar bill in her back pocket. Praise Jesus, re-shelve the Sprite Zero; we have enough for RBV’s.

Fast forward to the upstairs bar at Sawyer Park, then Pearl Bar (“You go to South Texas College of Law? I’m Dean Dennis’ daughter!”), a few precious last drinks at The Dubliner once the rest of the Washington Avenue corridor closes down for the night, and a panicked discussion of where to go next.

Who’s open late? Treasures, you say? I’m in.

The cameras could've followed us when we used the strippers’ private bathroom (the public line was way long, and I had made friends), helped them pick their outfits and laid down more toilet paper than any prior life situation had called for.

They could've come along to Whataburger, where we ate in (doyskies) with our usual Yellow Cab driver, Mike. They’d have gotten the requisite footage of a back-of-the-car make out — albeit in a taxi van instead of a black SUV — and it wouldn't have been half-hearted. And they could've filmed when I finally schlepped back to my friend’s apartment at 5 a.m. only to find myself locked out, and polished off my hash browns against the doorway until she finally woke to the sound of my beating on the door with my discarded heels and let me in.

What TV exec worth his or her salt could turn us down, I ask? Whether we ink a deal or not, I suggest you stay tuned for next time on Real Poor Postgrads…