Breaking the spell of reality

So I'm reading Rachel Pine's The Twins of Tribeca, an "inside look" novel about a very thinly-in fact barely-fictionalized version of Miramax. You know the kind, a book where it's understood that these characters are "really" Harvey and Bob Weinstein, or that one is "really" Gwyneth Paltrow. Actually it's a lot of fun.

However, in reading Pine's title for a sitcom which is obviously supposed to be "really" Friends, I come up against a wall. It just makes me think that 128 pages in, Pine stopped trying to come up with believable alternate identities for the entities she wished to satirically skewer.

I'll believe a lot of things can be on television. I'll believe in obsessive-compulsive detectives, fake psychic ones, and that Bill Engvall is a doctor.

But I will not believe there is a "massive sitcom hit" named Fuckbuddies.

Certainly not on network, and probably not even on Showtime or somethin'.

Although, if there were, I would certainly probably watch it.