“Models Less Happy Than Others, Study Says” — that via the Drudge Report, which was just one of the myriad press outlets to muse on a recent study by psychologists at City University, London, just in time for the start of London Fashion Week and hot on the heels of New York Fashion Week. As the Independent put it, “Changing continents as often as outfits, strutting catwalks and posing for the camera” leaves models “feeling less satisfied and more isolated than their peers doing ordinary jobs.”

Ah, those poor models! Don’t you feel sorry for them? Actually, I do — at least since watching the first two episodes of “The Agency,” a new reality show about models that makes its premiere on VH1 tonight. This one is about male as well as female models, and the twist is that while the male models are all good-looking and conduct themselves professionally, making sure they stay in shape, etc., the females — at least the ones featured on the show — are a mess. One has acne, another is overweight (by model standards), another eats hamburgers and fries and won’t go to the gym, while yet another isn’t sure she wants to be a model at all. And hardly any of them, of course, know how to “walk” — i.e., down a catwalk.

In the meantime, they are constantly bitched and moaned at by the harpies in the “High-End Women’s Board” of the Wilhelmina modeling agency. The nastiest agent is Becky, a foul-mouthed English harridan so annoying that she was forced, according to sources deep inside VH1, to leave Britain at gunpoint. Becky is an agent whose job is to “sell flesh.” One of the job’s perks is the opportunity to belittle flesh, and this she does with gusto. “You’re like the Pillsbury Dough Boy,” she tells one model, Chloe, kneading the tiny little roll of fat on Chloe’s belly. “There’s no feeling involved in this business,” Chloe complains, taking her leave. “She’s like a fat cow,” Becky says after Chloe’s departure. “I think we should drop her like a hot tomato,” says another agent, flubbing her only line.

Meanwhile, over at the men’s division of Wilhelmina, all is going sparklingly well. All the dudes are in shape, except for one — potentially the superstar of the bunch — who is a bit too thin — that is to say insufficiently buff — which means he might get mistaken for a European or something. (There’s a slightly Kafkaesque air about him, which is obviously troubling and to be avoided.) But the promise of big bucks lures him to the gym, and soon he’s packed on the muscle and landed a contract with the Gap.

If VH1 is to be believed, “The Agency” takes “a stark look” at the modeling business and its attendant “harsh realities.” But like most reality shows, it feels mostly unrealistic, never more so than when it cuts, as it does periodically, from one of the many grim, catty, exasperating scenes inside the women’s division of Wilhelmina, to a shot of Manhattan. Every time this happens I think there must have been some mistake. Surely this level of idiocy can’t be going on here? I mean, Los Angeles, maybe; Miami, maybe; but New York? Isn’t this supposed to be the smart town, the sophisticated town? What happened to this city that a badly dressed blimp called “Pink,” who has run the editorial division of Wilhelmina for six years, can be an official arbiter of beauty? The guy looks like a third-rate bouncer. You wouldn’t want him as a bus boy.

But hey, maybe he’s a genius. Episode 1 begins with an open call for female models, and “Pink” (who is wearing an orange shirt) launches into martinet mode, quickly dismissing a dozen or so girls with a flurry of insults as he hands them their résumés. “You’re too short,” he tells one. “You’re way too old,” he tells another. “What is going on with your hair?” “For me, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” “Hi, you’re too old and you’re too short. But thanks for coming by.”

One girl receives particular close scrutiny. “Your face is asymmetrical,” Pink explains, waving his hands around. “Your eyes are too close together, and your nose is off on an angle like this. Do you want me to keep going?”

No, that’ll do very nicely, Mr. Pink. We get the idea. But let’s scrutinize you. You are fat. Your voice has an irritating, whining quality like a dentist’s drill being smothered by an angry pillow. You have no sense of style. Your hair (there’s not much of it) is graying. Your skin is bumpy when it’s not blotchy. Your neck belongs on a bullfrog. Your chin — well, you don’t really have one, although if you were to glance down at your balloon of a belly, you’d have three. What else? You have breasts, and your nipples are showing. There are silly-looking tattoos on your arms, and you appear to have liver spots on your forehead. But let’s not be so superficial as to judge you on your looks. Let’s judge you on your personality. You’re a completely unpleasant human being who enjoys telling girls who are pretty that they’re not pretty enough, and you’re no Simon Cowell.

Other than that you’re wonderful. And successful. And on television. So you must be doing something right. You have understood the temper of the times and wormed your way into them. The Big Apple salutes you, Mr. Pink!

bbernhard@nysun.com