Instead of having to suffer the race-to-the-bottom most reality fare serves up, we’re witnessing a duel to the death between two of the most beloved and talented comedians in our nation.

I’ve never seen Survivor. The idea of sitting down to watch American Idol makes me cringe. Despite the Jersey Shore mania that has taken over in the past weeks, and the near-constant re-runs I keep scrolling past in the program guide, I refuse to succumb to the fad of guido-mockery.

Maybe because I remember watching MTV back at the beginning, when the first Real World set the ball in motion. Back when it was about casting an eclectic mix of interesting people and watching their ideals clash, long before it all went horribly wrong. Before they settled for hiring a bunch of fame-hungry, borderline-alcoholic airheads to yell at each other between swimming naked and screwing in front of night-vision cameras. Before it was accepted that one could find love on The Bachelor by winning a cut-throat contest against a score of desperate gold-diggers. Before people knew what a Kardashian or a Kendra was.

The point is, I seriously hate the current reality television machine.

I know plenty of people who can’t get enough though, and I’ve never understood it. Sure, there’s a voyeuristic pleasure in watching people argue or cry from a safe distance. But the way today’s shows create such artificial, manipulated drama isn’t satisfying. It’s mind-numbing, like a morphine button. Nothing is learned, gained, or created by anyone involved. It’s drama as sport: pure spectacle.

The central question I can’t answer is this: with such a parade of jackasses dominating television, how can anyone like these people enough to care about what happens to them? Is the American audience so low-brow that they genuinely relate to a bunch of shallow, mean attention whores constantly bickering? Or is it the opposite: are we all so insecure in ourselves that only the daily idiocies of the dregs of society can make us feel like worthwhile human beings in comparison?

What I’d much rather think is that the majority of us are better than that. That it’s easier to relate to smart people working hard perfecting a craft, and preferable to be inspired by our betters than reassured of our superiority to the worst among us. That’s why a few of the more successful, less offensive shows like Project Runway or Top Chef are at least watchable; they cast people who have talent and work at something more creative than douchey pick-up lines or the art of backstabbing. They have passion and drive. I may not care enough about designing cocktail dresses or pan-searing hors d’oeuvres to watch those shows religiously, but at least their existence doesn’t make me despair for the state of mankind.

……….

Then, to all our surprise and sudden fascination, in rolls 2010, with what may remain the best moments in reality television of this newly minted decade.

Suddenly, those of us who aren’t enthralled by would-be pop stars, celebutantes, or even aspiring chefs have a front row seat to the biggest reality-show contest imaginable: the race for the crown of late night talk. Though on its face the showdown is merely a contractual battle between two wealthy television stars, it captivates us because so many of the forces at play are totally relatable. We all know the sting of being screwed over by big corporations and the bosses who represent them. Conan has emerged as the sympathetic figure because so many have felt the pain of having their success determined by the whims of the old guard who came before them. As a culture we instinctively root for the underdog. Because we’re so used to being trampled on ourselves, we want to see someone fell the giant, just to know it’s possible.

Add to that the fact that, night after night, the entertainment value of the verbal battles being fought are far superior to anything reality television has to offer. These aren’t shrill cat fights between the petty and entitled. The late night war pits two extremely clever people (or at least one extremely clever person and one skillful panderer) directly in opposition, and as they trade cutting remarks it’s impossible to look away. Both shows are writing some of the best jokes of their careers, made even better because now there’s an element of human drama behind every punchline. When a nightly monologue rolls on, past the skewering of their incompetent network overlords or the deft jabs at each other, the few lame gags on current events or Hollywood gossip suddenly leave us cold, because at those moments nothing’s at stake. It’s less personal, less honest, less real.

Maybe the repartee isn’t quite as sharp as the best-written TV dramedies, but that’s what you trade for reality TV. The power comes from the understanding that you’re watching real people, not characters. We’re captivated by individuals laying themselves bare before our eyes. Sure, there are still machinations going on: when Leno took a serious moment to lay out the situation from his perspective, his blue-collar “I’m doing it for the crew” logic plays right into the working class audience he’s built up for himself. But there are also vulnerable moments of humanity: when Conan cracks wise about potential next jobs after leaving The Tonight Show, he may be laughing on the surface, but the hint of pain on his face makes his gallows humor hit even harder.

Then of course there’s the supporting cast. David Letterman, the older, wiser guy who’s seen this all before and has vitriol to spare. His clear distaste for NBC and Leno have made some of his remarks as fun to watch as the two central players. And don’t forget Jimmy Kimmel, the younger guy everyone counts out of the game, but who still has some surprises in store since he has nothing to lose. His full-episode impersonation of Leno was probably the funniest single episode of late night TV in years, not just because it was both ballsy and timely, but because his parody of Leno’s shortcomings was so brutally incisive.

This is the moment where a non-reality-show-watcher like me finally gets the appeal of reality TV. Watching the personal attacks and pleas for support of these two comedians has been the most compelling contest since Obama-McCain, with the added benefits that (a), they’re just TV hosts so they don’t have to watch their words the way politicians do — in fact they score more points the more daring they get — and (b), there’s nothing much on the line for us as an audience no matter who wins. We were entranced by the most-televised presidential race in history because for supporters on either side it felt like the future was at stake. Unfortunately for viewers at home, any given appearance was mostly full of the same old boiler-plate, focus-grouped sound bites. Here we have little to lose or gain on a personal level, but every episode is full of razor wit and bold surprises.

This is truly the most watchable reality TV out there. Instead of having to suffer the race-to-the-bottom most reality fare serves up, made tolerable only as the subject of scorn on a show like The Soup, we’re witnessing a duel to the death between two of the most beloved and talented comedians in our nation. (Make no mistake, even if you’re among those with no love for Leno, it takes talent to cater so successfully to the audience that adores him). The level of comic skill on display is awe-inspiring, and it’s being channeled into one of comedy’s best uses: as a take-down to the institutions that would prefer their control go unchallenged. I certainly never watched many reality shows before, but after a TV moment this captivating, it’ll be impossible to go back to anything less.