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A couple of years ago, I produced a reality-TV show called “Hollywood Hillbillies,” about a family from rural Georgia who, driven by the grandson’s newfound internet fame, moves west to make it in Hollywood. The show centered on the undeniable charisma of “Mema,” the foul-mouthed matriarch who spoke her mind and poked fun at the habits and attitudes of the Los Angeles elite. The show was part of a wave of “redneck reality” shows like “Swamp People,” “Duck Dynasty,” “Bayou Billionaires” and “Moonshiners” that presented a vision of white, rural America as the last authentic place on earth, the last place untarnished by the corruption and cynicism of the elites. “Hollywood Hillbillies” aired on the Reelz Network, a channel owned by a billionaire Republican donor Stanley Hubbard, who funded a pro-Trump “super” PAC after his preferred candidates lost the primaries. Designed as a harmless comedy, the show reveled in Mema’s provocative, off-color remarks, just as Donald J. Trump’s audience revels in his. But now I’m thinking more critically about what shows like this are selling. All of these shows have one thing in common: While trafficking in rural stereotypes, they celebrate wealth and business success — whether that business is crafting hick-hop music, catching alligators or designing duck calls. Ostensibly produced for middle America, they offer a population disenfranchised by globalization and the information economy a vision of rural ingenuity rewarded. Mr. Trump based his candidacy around this population. He spoke directly to voters raised on reality TV, addressing their fears and aspirations with blunt talk. He became their perfect celebrity champion, a rich white man, his image polished by years in a reality-TV boardroom, who validated their demographic anxiety. In an election season driven more by hatred of political opponents than enthusiasm for two deeply unpopular candidates, President-Elect Donald J. Trump hated best, and won. I am wondering today if the same embarrassment that prevents some of us from admitting that we watch “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” also kept Trump supporters from admitting to pollsters that they were voting for a man they knew the media considered a bigot. Two months ago, I started working on a new series, “Trumpigration,” a travel show about where to move if Donald Trump somehow got elected. That, too, was designed as a lighthearted comedy. Now, facing the prospect of four years of a Trump presidency, it’s beginning to feel like the last chance to change the channel.