I spuddle.

I am sorry, Bachelor-loving peeps but I actually forgot to record the first episode of the new gripping season of The Bachelor: How Long Will They Stay Together After The Credits Roll? So I missed the first hour. Which isn’t such a bad thing because honestly, watching the girls traipsing out of the limo in their prom dresses makes me anxious beyond words. I mean, what does it say about humanity? Who MAKES these dresses? Slutty prom dresses for grown up ladies? Do people actually pay money for them? And why? And does the person in India who is weaving that yellow shiny polyester fabric have to take frequent breaks due to migraines? And are the dresses glued to these girls’ boobs? And OH GOD THE AWKWARDNESS I HATE IT SO MUCH.

So missing it was sort of a win. By the time I turned the TV on, someone was crying. Who was it? Why it was Jenna. She is a “blogger”. Aren’t we all, kid? Aren’t we all? And why is she crying? Because some blonde lesbian with a ponytail doesn’t like her. Well, I don’t like the blonde lesbian! It’s nothing personal, but she is the same age and has the same vacant moon face and irritating eye roll as my ex-husband’s new girlfriend. THE SAME AGE. I know, barf, right? Exactly how I feel. So the eye-rolling lesbian makes Jenna feel sad because the ERL says she doesn’t care about Ben. But Jenna LOVES Ben! She LOVES him! My golly, I think the ERL is not there for the right reasons!

This is terrible news. Someone being on the Bachelor for the wrong reasons is like someone … actually, wait. What? What are the right reasons? To be on TV in a horrific polyester prom dress cut for a woman three sizes smaller than you? If THAT is the case, then they are all there for the right reason. The Bachelor has a 0% success rate. Zero. Of all the seasons of this show, there have only been two successful matches, and they have both been Bachelorettes. I can see why this is, because I am a brilliant anthropologist. Oh, sorry. No, I’m not. I just play one on TV. Or I would, if I were on TV. Which I’m not. But if they ever ASK me to be on TV, I’m going to ask them to write my name at the bottom of the screen and then write “Bachelor anthropologist” underneath. Because all this work cannot be for naught! Am I getting credit for this? No? Then why am I doing it? And how many rhetorical questions can I ask in one paragraph?

Anyway, bearing in mind that there has NEVER ONE TIME EVER been a successful match made on The Bachelor, it is easier to understand why stringy-haired Ben has such darting eyes. He is at a salad bar, but there is no lettuce. It is just BOOBS. He is at a boob salad bar. And his brain is short circuiting. The short-circuiting (and this is true science!) (that I’ve made up) is what causes his eyes to dart in a way that makes him look suspiciously like someone who has just been doing meth in the bathroom. It’s not meth, people. It’s OH THE POSSIBILITIES! He is going to get to sleep with THREE of these women! Which three? WHICH THREE? The tiny marble that occupies his skull is bouncing around so vigorously that I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he didn’t open his mouth on an upcoming episode and have the marble ricochet directly into the camera. That marble is really having a hard time containing itself. Poor Ben. He may be stringy, but he’s also TOO EXCITED TO SURVIVE.

But! He also understands how nerve-wracking it all is. It is nerve-wracking. I mean, golly. Think about it. There you are in your slutty prom dress on TV, working hard to out-seduce 24 other slutty prom-goers for the attention of stringy Ben. I personally cannot imagine anything more terrifying. No wonder Jenna has lost the plot and the ERL is batting for the other team. Nerves can affect people, you know! They really can.

So the awkward “cocktail” party drags on and the producers work hard with cattle prods to make Stringy Ben pay attention to whatever woman is desperately trying to give him a glimpse of her girl goodies. His eyes dart this way and that like two fish trying to see what other lures are available to hook him. What? That’s a terrible metaphor. Well, I’m out of practice. I’ve spent the last year being bitter and broken-hearted, so this is quite a jarring contrast to me to have to face an entire HERD of women trying to get into Ben’s pants. I mean, heart. Because I have NO DOUBT that true love will rule the day here on ABC.

Oh, I lie. I mean, come on. We all saw the preview. Ben is going to pick someone and she is going to say ‘no’! Zoinks! A plot twist the producers haven’t thrust on us before! I myself can hardly wait. And I swear that in the future, I will actually watch the entire episode to recount it to you properly, even if that means looking at Stringy Ben for two hours per week for at least a few weeks on his search for “love”. Ha ha ha. It’s hard to type for laughing. Really, Ben? “Love”?

Does anyone know if Ashley and JT really tied the knot? I’m too lazy to google it. Please advise at once.

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Hello! Is anyone out there? We are all (using the word “we” loosely to mean “just me”, of course) gearing up for a new and gripping and oh-so-romantic season of The Bachelor in early January. Consider this me just cracking my knuckles in preparation, barring the fact that I never crack my knuckles and if YOU do it anywhere near me, I may just stab you with a particularly pointy pencil. Lucky for you, I type everything and rarely have any kind of sharp writing instrument nearby.

Merry Christmas in advance and I’ll see you in the New Year with a bunch of rubbish about The Bachelor and all my incredibly cynical thoughts about romance and reality TV and why they really don’t mix. Not that I know what I’m talking about as all my romances fail horribly and I’ve never been on any kind of reality TV show. So we’ll see how that goes, shall we?

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Oh, readers.  Or “reader”, as the case may be.   I am sorry.   I am sorry I let Bachelorette-watching snarkers down all over America and even further afield than that, like Canada, where I actually live.    I just couldn’t do it.   Even WATCHING this season seemed like a chore as horrible and annoying as wiping pee spills off the floor from around the toilet because no male human in my family seems to be able to hit what seems to me (as a girl, anyway) like a rather large target.  

Try as I might to start a blog after each long dreary episode in which Ashley bemoaned Bentley’s early departure and the audience developed terrible eye muscle disorders from the amount of universal eye-rolling that ensued, I just couldn’t do it.   None of it struck me as funny, just bland and depressing and a bit mean (really, producers? You couldn’t have just shown her an outtake of Bentley talking about how he found her repulsive?) and pretty pathetic, kind of like my own life, AND an excellent example of how people fall in love with idiots all the time and the idiots just want to preen on TV and travel the world.

I’d like to travel the world.  Who wouldn’t?   But travelling the world with 25 or 8 or 2 or however many preening men who may or may not be gay (AMES) and may or may not have really severe anger management issues (LUCAS) and may or may not even be alive under all that hair (CONSTANTINE) sounds as much fun as cutting my hand open while opening a tin of peaches.   Hey, speaking of peaches, you know what song has been in my head for about two months?   Yes, that’s right, this one:

No, I don’t know why either.

So, yes. The Bachelorette: The Most Depressing Season Ever. Maybe I find it depressing because it’s coinciding with the horrible end of my own marriage and the crumpling of my belief in love, life, and the universe. I mean, I BELIEVE in the universe, but I may not still believe in hearts & flowers True Love ™. Oh, who am I kidding, of course I still believe in that, but I no longer believe you can find it on TV! Oh, wait, I never did. So nothing much has changed. Except, you know, I’m single. I think that this sums up nicely why Ashley is unlikely to stay married to whoever she marries at the end of this sitcom, I mean “reality” show. Or maybe she is. I really don’t know. But the bottom line is that I also really don’t care. Do you? What else should we talk about? I have left this blog languish for so long, I don’t even know if anyone is reading it anymore. What shall I blog about instead of Ashley? Anyone? Bueller? Are you old enough to get that reference? Is anyone out there?

Peaches come in a can, they were put there by a man. And that’s all I know about anything.

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So I watched the first episode of this show and began to feel depressed, which isn’t a good way to start a snarky blog.   I’m not sure why I felt depressed.   Because I am old?  Because NO ONE is on the show for “the right reasons” when the show involves global FREE travel and the TV spotlight and a ticket to half-naked hot-tub parties with willing partners for the rest of time?  (See also:  Weird incestuous “Bachelor alumni” weekends.   And since when can you be an alumnus of a REALITY TV SHOW?)   Shoot me.  Seriously.   Except not with a GUN.   God.  I don’t want to DIE.   I meant with a pie or something.   Can you shoot someone with a pie?  WOULD YOU SHOOT SOMEONE WITH A PIE?   I’m just wondering.   I no longer know anything.   I know a thing or two about this show, and that is, HELLLLLO.   NO RELATIONSHIP THAT BEGAN ON THIS SHOW HAS EVER LASTED.   Yes, yes, Trista and Ryan.   I KNOW.   But Trista is the sort of person who would not tolerate someone leaving her.   She seems like the kind of woman who could bend iron with her eyes.   WITH HER STEELY GAZE.   I don’t know what that has to do with anything, no.   It has nothing to do with the depressing nature of the twelve-thousandth season of The Bachelor, that is for certain.   What am I talking about?

Oh, Ashley.   Who is this Ashley?   She is a different human every time she shows up.  Now apparently she is a dancer.   Who knew?  I thought she was a dentist.   Where does she get off being all multi-dimensional?   Not that dancing and dentistry exactly makes her deep.   There is something about her that makes me think of Air Hostesses, circa 1968, and I wasn’t even born in 1968.    It’s a toothy smile and an ability to appear interested in that which completely doesn’t interest her.   I don’t want to say bad things about Ashley because she seems also like someone who would be damaged by bad things and actually, I think she is masterfully going to choreograph this season in such a way that it is hard to say bad things about her.   See, I’m typing all this and it doesn’t make sense and missing the exciting mask-guy-reveal on this show.   Drat.   People are weird.   She wants to yawn.   I can see it.  She is clenching her jaw in that, “I don’t want to yawn” way.

I should pay attention so I can accurately report, but I can’t accurately report because I cannot tell these men apart.   Why are they all white?   I am depressed by their whiteness.   I like white people.   White people are fine.   ALL people are fine.   But come on.   Only white guys?   What up, ABC?    Boring.   So far, I must admit, I am painfully bored by this season so far.   I hope someone shows up in a MASK!   Ha ha!  Oh, they already did.   Hello, mask guy.   Please stand by because I am going to rewind to listen to this rambling mask-reveal story.    HOLD.

Um, still know nothing.   OK, where were we?   I will try to recap.   FOR YOU.   That’s right.  Even though you watched the show!   Why do you need me to recap!   Is it a test?  IS THIS ALL A TEST?   Hmmm.

So, episode one.   First off, the opening sequence depressed me.   There she is, dentisting away and looking more like an actress playing a dentist than an actual dentist.   Then she’s dancing.   What is up with her dancing?   At least, I think it’s dancing.   Or else it’s Jane Fonda’s exercise routine from the early 80s.   It certainly looks familiar.   And then she’s demonstrating that — not to worry!  – she may be a good student but she is also a hoochie mama!   Whatever that means!  I mean, “slut”!  Because it’s only FUN when you dance in your underpants!   Ask my kids!   They think underpants are hilarious!   So Ashley is clearly demonstrating that she is funny!   NOT SMART!  But fun!  In a slutty way!  AND ALSO SHE IS ROCKY!   The Rocky scene depressed me, which in no way set it apart from the other scenes.   Ashley is not going to find love on this show.    TRUST me.   She isn’t ready for love, she is so busy selling herself that she is going to forget to look at the people she is supposed to be buying and make a smart selection.   She is going to pick the guy who best sells HER to her.   I am old and wise and can say these things.

Anyway, then 25 guys get out of the limo and as far as I can tell, the most noteworthy thing about any of that is that one of them is drunk and falls asleep on the couch.   Then I fell asleep on the couch.   So.

Moving on!   Week two!   Ashley and Prince William go on a date in Vegas!   They both love it!   They eat wedding cake!  The guy is apparently willing to marry her on the first date!   Ashley is sold!  The show ends!

Only sadly, it doesn’t.   The fact that Bentley is an ass is highlighted by the producers so often that I feel … depressed.   Yes, he’s an asshole.  YES, SHE KNEW.   So why is she so into him?  MYSTERY.  He’s an average looking guy with a poor personality and a head that will one day look very homely when its bald.    He is a future door-slammer and sulker who refuses to mow the lawn and instead takes up jogging so he can ogle young girls in short shorts on the running track.   There is something about him that makes me feel like I slammed my hand in a car door.    But he’s on the show because he is this season’s sleezeball and so help the producers, he will STAY.    Add some drama in the form of incredible rudeness!   It’s all too seriously trying too hard!   The men are wondering what their next exotic destination is!   Will the masked guy EVER take off that mask?   Do I care?

Let’s just jump past the awkward dancing sequence and the one on one where Ashley cared so little about the guy, she flipped a coin to decide whether to bother with keeping him or not.  If he had an ounce of self-esteem, he would have walked in that moment.   But he didn’t.   Why not?  Why were the pyramids all lined up with the Mayan things?   All these things are unsolved mysteries that we will perhaps go to our graves not understanding.   And lo!  A rose ceremony!

Who will she pick?  Tell me honestly, peeps, do you care?   Because I’m not sure that I do.   Is there another show I should snark?   Tell me why this show is so depressing this year.  Is it just me?  Or is it you, too?

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And now, finally, it’s over.  THANKS BE TO THE GODZ AND STUFF.   I don’t know why I watch this, I really don’t, and at the end of the season, I always feel like having a party to celebrate, not to celebrate Brad’s Big Love but to celebrate the fact I don’t have to see his face again until next time he’s The Bachelor, or, God forbid, he’s dredged up to give advice to another hapless idiot who really thinks he can find love on ABC.   Maybe on NBC, but definitely NOT on ABC.  God.  Do these people learn nothing?

Anyway, here we are in Cape Town, which does look like a nifty place, if you’re into sharks, which I am.  I mean, I’m into them in that they are often in my nightmares and I usually wake up screaming and sweating and lashing out like a person who is trying to punch a great white shark in the nose in the hopes of paralyzing it just long enough that I could be saved, except it’s a DREAM, yo, so invariably the shark eats me like a gingerbread man:  head first.   What?  No, I don’t know.  I just know that the sharks are the single most compelling thing about this episode but NOT THE MOST FRIGHTENING.   How can that be?  I don’t know.  Ask Brad.

So Chantal and Brad have another date that is like all the other dates they have wherein Chantal spends a lot of time tugging at her clothes as though she’s just found out that no shirt/dress/wetsuit in the world could possibly zip over the “little gift she bought for herself” when she once weighed the pros and cons of adult entertainment as a career.  No, I don’t know she did this.  I AM SPECULATING.   Sometimes speculating is mean.   This just in:  Sometimes *I* am mean.  Yes, I hate myself.  Don’t worry!   I have it in the bag.   But that does not limit me from making snark about the “contestants” on The Bachelor, no it does not.

After Chantal gives Brad an embarrassing and awkward gift, I mentally give her an award for “#1 at Putting Yourself OUt There In Spite Of The Obvious Risk Of Rejection, Being Higher Than Average In This Preposterous Situation You Are In.”   Then she meets his family or maybe it was the other way around, I forget, but they are pretty happy to see Brad and confuzzled by his weeping, but then again, they probably have spent a lot of time being confuzzled by Brad.   If not, they should have.  They like Chantal, they can’t wait to welcome her to the family!  It’s Lurve At First Sight!  Or at least until they meet the next option.   Brad sweats a lot and looks perplexed and self-important and it occurs to me that being on The Bachelor has really ruined him for life (not that he wasn’t already pretty wrecked) because he now thinks that all his actions and emotions should be pulled directly from an ABC soap opera.   OVERACTING FTW!  Except not for any “win” that I am familiar with.  Ask Charlie Sheen, maybe this is more his territory.

So now it’s Emily’s turn and she is so excited to go on a date with Brad that she forgets her gosh-durned pants.   Oh, sugar!   Still, she dons her sweetest grin and embarks on a boring tour with Brad.   No sharks.  YAWN.    I don’t know what else happens, but look!  Brad’s mom and assorted sisters-in-law!  They LOVE Emily!  Or “Em” as we call her!  Because she has a dead fiancee!  I have to give props to Emily here because she is able to pull maximum sympathy out of a story that perhaps could be summarized as, “Rikki’s Dad passed away” and then expounded on later.   But no, she sighs the sigh of a long-suffering sage, and begins, “It was a dark and stormy night…”   I realize snarking about someone’s dead fiance is really really really bad form, but I’m not snarking about his DEATH, just the retelling of his death like it’s a Hallmark movie of the week instead of trying to gloss over it in an effort to maybe not make everyone at the dinner table cry.  But cry they do.  And now they HATE Chantal.   She doesn’t have babies!  She wouldn’t understand them!  They like wine and sushi!  What?  They set the bar pretty high for Brad!

Now they are at Emily’s place or somewhere, who knows where, and Emily has the big fat nerve to ask Brad if he’s sure he’s ready to be an insta-Dad to Rikki, and then in a move more terrifying that Jaws, Brad gets FURIOUS.  His own jaw is working like he’s got some chewing tabacky in there that is firmly stuck in his empty-tooth socket.   The HELL?  How DARE SHE QUESTION HIM IN THIS WAY?   Why, suddenly, I am remembering ol’ Flash O’ Rage Jake!   So “perfect” (in his own eyes) but also!  A! Cold! And! Scary! Psycho!   Warning!  Warning!  Do not marry!  Anger issues!

Anyway, he has some water and sweats a lot, is he like the Hulk?  Is he going to go green and get all dumb and large?   I have to say that if I ever considered marrying, I would ask about 10000987 more questions than she did because I wouldn’t want to bring to my KIDS some chump who wants a World’s Best Dad cup at the breakfast table but also wants to never be around teh kids.   Lest we forget, he couldn’t even KISS her with Rikki asleep upstairs, he most certainly will never be able to get it up again, and this will be, in a roundabout way, Rikki’s “fault” and GOD HELP THEM ALL.

Now it’s the rose ceremony and OMG, he picks Emily.  I cannot summarize what he says because it’s all boring and repetitive and frankly, I wasn’t listening, but I gathered from Chantal’s tears and Emily’s toothy grin that Emily is The Chosen One.

Wheee!  It’s over!  Party on my couch!

Except there is AFTER THE FINAL ROSE.   But I am out of words!   Damn it.   And this was so fun.   Let’s summarize:  Thankfully, she seems to have a change of heart about both her hair colour (much better now Emily) and Brad in general.

DUMP HIM, EM.  He can find someone else on the next season, seriously.

PS – Dear Trista and Ryan.   You met on TV.  That was neat.  But seriously, as far as I can tell, you don’t really have the right to be so self-righteously smug about your relationship.   If only everyone could follow in your footsteps!  Barf.  Love, Karen

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Are we already at the overnight dates?  Time flies on this show, but that is because it is only 11 weeks long and one of the weeks is that stupid, throw away week in which contestants who were kicked off whine about how Brad never really really really KNEW them, like, you know?   Which is what we have to look forward to next week.  Other things I look forward to include, but are not limited to:  ever having a root canal, being called on to donate my kidney to Lady Gaga, having zombies eat my brain.

So here we are and there is Brad and OMG it’s the most gorgeous place EVER, he says, getting off the plane.  That must be SOME airport!  Zoinks!   Brad instantly begins sweating, giving us the impression that it’s hot in South Africa and/or he’s nervous.   We don’t really care which because we stopped caring about this show as soon as it started.   Brad is taken to some kind of nature preserve and fed to the lions.   Hey, this show just got better!  But no, it didn’t, because that part isn’t even true.   I MADE IT UP.   I write fiction, I can do that.   Neener, neener, neener.

Sadly, Brad is not consumed like a steak at a barbecue by any wildlife, but instead is set loose with Chantal.   She is like OMG TOTALLY EXCITED!  They are going on a safari?  IN SOUTH AFRICA?   No, Chantal, you are going on a safari in San Diego, but first you’ll have to get back on a plane and fly there!   She cannot believe her good fortune!   TO BE IN AFRICA AND GET TO GO ON A SAFARI.   Wait, is there much else to do in Africa?  Really?  Because I’m surprised that she is surprised that Brad is taking her on the most obvious date ever.  But I’m cynical, so I should shut up.  On the other hand, if I shut up, you won’t have anything to read while you’re supposed to be working, so I won’t, and I’m doing it for YOU.   You’re welcome.

Chantal is breathtakingly giddy about every single thing and every single thing she says is so inane that I want to start sticking pins in my skin in a kind of self-acupuncture, self-mutilation kind of way just to see if the pain makes me feel alive and/or relaxes me.   Instead, I have wine.  Wine helps this show a lot, both when you are on it and when you are watching it.   Brad and Chantal gulp down several bottles and Brad tricks Chantal into eating a worm and then proves how humorless he is and what a poor sport by not eating one himself.   Then he laughs at her in a way that seems playground-mean instead of actually funny.   This, she concludes is a metaphor for love.  Is it?  Maybe.   I’m pretty down on Love ™ at the moment so maybe picnicking by a river in Africa and your “love” is laughing AT you while two armed guards stand by and a hippo rolls her eyes and wonders if you’re even worth trampling to death IS an apt metaphor for love.   Especially the way that Brad is making you feel so safe!  Except BRAD is not the sniper with the rifle waiting to pick off the first feline to launch itself from the grass onto your throat.  I’m just sayin’.

Brad and Chantal then go have sex in a tree house.   More than anything, I wanted lions to slowly ascend the staircase and at least give them a good scare and then maybe fall about laughing, like lions do.   Oh, wait, they don’t.   That’s Brad.  But whatevs.   What I want to know is whether the snipers filmed the action to later sell on the internet?  I don’t want to buy it, god NO, I’d feed myself to the lions first, I just wonder how much business acuity they have.   That treehouse probably sees a lot of action.   Those rifle guys could make a fortune!  There is money in porn!  Not that I approve of porn.   Wow, how quickly has this post got away from me?  682 words?  Right.   Damn.  Sorry.

Next up, Emily!   Brad wipes his mouth and then kisses Emily passionately because he loves her so damn much.   This is the part of the show that I find the most gut-wrenchingly revolting.   Brad is RELISHING the fact he gets to “honestly” have sex with three women on three consecutive nights and have it be somehow SANCTIONED because it’s on TV!  Is OK!  Is not really cheating!  Except it is, isn’t it?  Yes, it is.  I AM SO OVER CHEATING RIGHT NOW.  I am over a lot of things.   I am mostly over 23 year old blonde women who light candles and do INCANTATIONS and the middle age men who pant after them shouting, “I love you!  My wife doesn’t understand me!”   But enough about me!   Brad and Emily are so boring together that I swear to god, even though I was staring at the screen the whole time, I was able to finish writing my novel in my head as well as calculate the average speed of a sun flare that would hopefully kill us all before the episode ended.   Does Emily have ANYTHING to say?  EVER?  Does Brad?  Do we care?   No?   Where’s the goddamn treehouse already?

Finally the date ends, I don’t know how or why, I think maybe they just mumbled off into the distance and a lion ate them.  No?  Damn.   Well, here’s hoping!

Next up, Ashley!   Poor Ashley.  She has made the mistake of wanting to be superwoman.   The funny thing is that I never pictured superwoman as being a DENTIST.   Maybe a brain surgeon?   Or an artist?  But somehow “dentist” doesn’t work for me.  Sorry, no comic book future for you, Ashley.   Ashley, mistaking Brad for a normal man, goes on about how she could live anywhere and her career is important to her.   If there was a gong, I would strike it.  Oh, Ashley.  The correct line was “I WANT TO LIVE IN AUSTIN! WITH YOU, BRAD!”  and “MY CAREER IS JUST A LITLE HOBBY I HAVE UNTIL I CAN FIND A MAN TO TAKE CARE OF ME!”   In this case, “man” needs two syllables.  ”May-un.”   Brad would like that.   The fact that Brad cannot take care of HIMSELF notwithstanding.  Where, oh where, is his blue-shirted therapist?   Brad has no patience for someone who does not want to abandon her own hopes and dreams and come along with him for the ride on his Brad-plane.   And the Brad-plane makes no unscheduled stops or landings!   NO FLEXIBILITY FOR YOU!

Anyway, they have an overnight date and who cares?  They either do or do not have sex.  I’m betting on “do”.   “Do” is the only explanation for why Ashley is surprised to be un-rose-ceremoniously dumped the next day.   She is SO SHOCKED and her heart “aches a little”.   Wow.   Really?  She thought she was going to marry him and he dumped her and that gave her a slight chest discomfort?  I guess it’s a good thing that it didn’t give her a coronary because Brad said about 87 times in this episode, “I don’t know where her heart is.”  Could be a problem if CPR is required!   Ha ha.  Oh man.  I was waiting to say that for this whole post but couldn’t find a place for it, and even now I’m just shoe-horning it in because it’s funny.  To me.  And not much is, these days.

Next week, boring recrap, with whining!  The following week?  Brad’s family is dragged through the reality TV sludge once again, only this time at least they get a free trip to Capetown out of the deal.    I can’t wait!  I mean, I can, but really, I can’t.  Because then it will be over!   “Over”, like EVERY RELATIONSHIP THIS SHOW HAS EVER SPAWNED.  (Yes, yes, I know, EXCEPT TRISTA AND RYAN.  Fine.)

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It’s sometimes amazing to me how fast the bachelor comes and goes from my TV.  One minute, there he is, nervously snuffling in front of multiple limos full of “ladies” and the next, he is on one knee, lying about some kind of eternal love bullshit that no one in the world believes except for the victim herself.  Is there a name for that?  I nominate “Bachelor Syndrome”.   You know, like Stockholm Syndrome but with… yeah.   Never mind.   I know it’s dumb.   Sorry.  My bad.   I mean, the last thing this show needs is EXTRA dumbness.

Anyway, there is Brad, randomly in New York, looking pensive in fall/winter 2010 catalogue clothing.   WHY he is in New York is not explained because last time I looked he was in Costa Rica, he LIVES in Austin (lest we forget), and none of the girls are in NY.    So, the hell?   I don’t know either.  And I most definitely do not care, except the tiny percentage of me that is budget conscious and thinking, WOW, WHAT A WASTE OF MONEY.    I hope for every penny that ABC wastes on this stupid, brain-draining, life-wasting program, they donate a penny to cure cancer.   That would be nice.  I’m just sayin’.

Now we’re off to Seattle!   Where Brad, who was cooling considerably on Chantal O.  and all her emotions and damn annoying “needs”, suddenly fell headlong into love with her (Dad).   Her Dad.  That’s right, I SAID IT.   Chantal O.?   He seriously wasn’t that into you until he saw your family’s wealth and realized that whole Seahawks connection.   I AM NOT WRONG.   Run, Chantal.   Take the dog AND the cats and run.  Except you don’t have to run, you could just stay in Seattle because he will not follow you there because he cannot under any circumstances leave Austin.   Ever.   Except to travel and schtup babes.   Schtupp?   Whatever.   You know what I mean.    The bakers’ dozen of therapy appointments that he bothered to keep did not cover anything to do with “compromise” or “respecting and valuing your partner” so don’t expect Brad to bend to your will.  EVEN THOUGH YOU HAVE MONEY.   Honey, seriously.   What can I do to get your attention here?  Brad is a failing “entrepreneur” whose clubs are quickly becoming “closed”.   Your dad?  Is a success story.   Brad?  Wants to BE your dad.   YOU MUST ESCAPE WITH YOUR HEART INTACT.   Please.  For the love of God.   Maybe her dog will rescue her, like Lassie would if she fell down a well!   Or maybe not.   Sorry Chantal.    Enjoy your marriage to Brad.   I hope you get a pre-nup.   Please.   Get a pre-nup.  I’m not kidding.

Now we’re off to somewhere in Maine!  Which is practically Canada and they eat poutine.   I don’t like poutine.   This is because I find the term “cheese curd” very off-putting.   But that’s me.   I am not Ashley!   But then again, neither is Ashley!   What HAPPENED to Ashley?   She was so serious and old and frowny for the ENTIRE SEASON and now she is like a perky adolescent who is in the first throes of a passionate affair with meth!   She is leaping around!  Full of energy and life!   Snuggling with her equally hyperactive family!   Who are so happy and screechy they are making me uncomfortable!  Notice I am not comparing my family to these people’s families.   Look, I am not ON the show.   Trust me, my family is also deranged.  That is why we cleverly avoid being on national TV during primetime or even on infomercials late at night.   Know your strengths, people.   Brad is in love with Ashley but he doesn’t want to hold her back.   The loose translation of this is that Brad is terribly threatened by a woman with an actual career and a woman who is SMARTER THAN HIM.    There is no way in hell he’d pick her because he knows he is not good enough for her.   Trust me.   I am like a psychic but different in that I don’t have a 900-number and no one ever believes me, even when I later turn out to be right.

Off to Chico!   Wait, why didn’t he visit Chico after Seattle?  Wouldn’t that be closer?   No?   They just want to punish Brad by making him fly back and forth across the country in a zig-zag pattern while nourishing him only with airline pretzels and flat pop?   UNDERSTOOD.

The producers, who are dying from joy about this particular plotline, set Shawntel up to fail with Brad by making her show him things like an “aneurysm hook”.   Brad is freaking out.   Why the HELL didn’t his therapist ADVISE him that people DIE?   HE DIDN’T KNOW!   And!  He!  Does!  Not!  Like!  Death!  Unlike everyone else in the world, who think Death is awesome!   What?   No, we don’t.   This just in:  NO ONE LIKES DEATH.  Except Shawntel, who I really liked up until the point when she said that she thought that most of the people who came to her were HAPPY while planning funerals.   SHAWNTEL.   Seriously.   What?   You may be comfortable with death but you are deluded to think that “most” people celebrate it.   I would hanker to guess that MOST is an exaggeration.   Maybe “some”.   Possibly “a few”.   But MOST?  What kind of people are these in Chico?   Well, we get to find out that a least a handful of them are downright mean.    Yes, Shawntel’s Dad, I am looking at YOU.   I am sure you are a lovely person, (actually, that’s a lie, I am not entirely convinced of this or even slightly sure), but telling your daughter that she LET EVERYONE DOWN because her highschool gym coach’s CHILD died while she was away was just flat-out cruel.   CRUEL.  And if she falls in love and moves away, guess what?   You will have to deal.   I sincerely hope that seeing yourself on TV guilting your daughter into never leaving Chico so she can take over YOUR business so YOU can retire makes you feel tiny and cold, like a small frozen pea that has rolled under the fridge into a pile of gross dust and hair.

It’s obvious at this point that Shawntel will only get a rose if all the other contestants all fall ill to a massive syphillis outbreak, so let’s move on to the World’s Most Painfully Awkward Date, in which Brad awkwardly tries to get little Ricki to love him and little Ricki shows enough gumption to suggest she has better taste in men than her mother, sweet deluded Emily, who sincerely seems to believe that dysfunctional Brad would be a terrific father-figure to her precious baby.   Brad is actually so riddled with anxiety about the presence of the child that he cannot slap tongues with Emily and somehow manages to make this Emily’s fault for daring to have a kid upstairs.  Just WHERE did he think that Emily kept her child?  In the garden shed?   Emily, do NOT accept his proposal!   Except I know you won’t because he won’t propose to you.   Taking on a child is WAY too much for the likes of Brad.   Seattle Seahawks business guy?  Or a child with human needs?   Well, that’s a no-brainer.

OH MY GOD, I WENT OVER MY WORD COUNT BY OVER 200.   The end is nigh!

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Oh, man.   ABC, you are KILLING ME THIS SEASON.   Let’s not even talk abut this episode, let’s talk instead about how Brad and Wes were apparently sharing a girlfriend.  Because US Magazine (or someone) says that she and Brad were together (off and on!) for eight years, and yet she and Wes were together (on and off!) for three years, and MAN did those years overlap by my count, so ew?  Someone dip Brad in bleach, stat.   You don’t EVER want to be where Wes has been, I’m guessin’.     And seriously, what are the odds that the two least likeable male humans ever to be on The Bachelor would have been drinking at the same water cooler off screen?   Did I say “ew”?   Well, EW.

So now we’re in Anguilla, which is gorgeous and I wish I was there, yes, indeedy, I do.  But I am not.   Brad is!  And Emily!  And some other women!  I don’t care anymore!   Emily and Brad go on a date and Emily whispers insipidly that she doesn’t care what they do.   It occurs to me that Emily’s personality is much like a blade of grass.   No, I have nowhere to go with that metaphor.   I meant, “wispy”, OK?  I was trying to be clever, but even trying to be clever about this show is exhausting, completely exhausting, or maybe I’m just tired.   I broke some of my ribs, did I mention that?  So today I exercised for the first time in forever and it wasn’t even exercise, it was some leisurely laps at the pool.   What am I talking about?  Emily?  No.  I mean, yes.   Emily doesn’t mind about anything, repeats every vapid, pointless thing Brad says, and then they make out and she says he can’t meet her kid and he says he’s forcing the issue by giving her a rose, and there WERE no roses on these dates so he’s breaking the rules.   How radical!   I don’t know how ABC plans to keep this zany dude in check!

So, whatever, who cares.  They kiss.  Shawntel is up next.  I would date Shawntel if I was gay and so was she and we were anywhere in the same demographic and interested in each other.   No, I wouldn’t.  What I’m saying is that she’s the best of this miserable bunch.  But Brad won’t pick her because, EW!, she touches dead bodies!   Eeek!   But actually, so what?  HE TOUCHED SOMETHING THAT WES HAD BEEN IN.   Bigger EW.   And, come on, what are you, EIGHT?  This just in:  Everyone dies!  Sorry, Brad.  Also:  Santa isn’t real!   DISCUSS.

Next up… oh, crap, I can’t remember, I think it was Britt, who one minute was jumping off a rocky cliff and the next had been pushed into a dinghy in the direction of shore.   Bye, Britt.  We never even knew ye!   The End.

But it isn’t the end, because there is the incredibly painful and stupid group date in which the three remaining women are forced to don red bikinis and to pose for SI.   Apparently the contract that ABC makes them sign says that nudity may be required and they may have to prostitute themselves for nickels.   They all do it and it’s awkward and painful to watch and then Chantal cries a bunch and Michelle dry-humps Brad’s leg like an unfixed Pomeranian.   The crying costs Chantal — didn’t she hear him say that he didn’t like it when she was human? — and Ashley gets the rose.   Oh, Ashley.   Sweet, deluded, semi-crazy, Ashley.  I have no words.

Not surprisingly, psycho Michelle is sent packing because Brad was scared of what a family that produced MICHELLE might be like.   Quite smart and actually she earned one tiny ounce of respect from me for not taking his hand and gushing about how he had fantastic women there and she wanted nothing more than his happiness.   The lying down in the car made her seem almost human.   So, you go girl.   Your boobs scare me.   I’m just saying.   Anyway.   What?

OK, well, that’s it.  Next week, hometown!   I know I’m on the edge of my seat.   Not actually, but you know I would be, if I cared about this show, which I don’t.

Cheers.  (drink)

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I know I’m a day late to posting this but that is because it took me a day to absorb and then forget in its entirety this episode of The Bachelor.   I was very nearly EXCITED about it, which is a good indication of my current state of mental (ill) health because COSTA RICA IZ PRETTY.   I think.  I mean, I’ve never been, but I’ve HEARD that it’s pretty.   Although it occurs to me that I might be confusing it with somewhere else, like, I don’t know.   I can’t think of the names of any of the places that I regularly confuse with Costa Rica, making the entirety of this paragraph as pointless as an episode of The Bachelor.

So, I don’t know, let’s just jump right in, shall we?   The girls fly to Costa Rica!  It’s so super-exciting!  Squee!  Did I mention that I keep forgetting to buy wine?   My marriage recently ended (not funny, but true) and my husband was the wine-procurer.   Every time I go to the wine store to buy wine, I feel like the guy behind the counter is thinking, “Oh, sad, middle-aged woman buying wine, probably an alcoholic.”  WHY DO I THINK THIS WAY?  It prevents me from buying wine and OH MY GODZ IN HEAVEN, this show REQUIRES WINE.   And if that makes me an alcoholic, then damn it, yes, I am one.  I will buy an ENTIRE CASE OF WINE THIS WEEK to carry me through the rest of the season.   Sobriety is obviously what made this episode so painfully unwatchable.  That, and the fact my kids were taking turns throwing up.

OK, fine, so whatever, I was sober, the kids were sick and Chantal (spelled right) got the first one-on-one.   Did you know that her dad owns or owned or something the Seattle Seahawks?   True fact.    Chantal is no ordinary “executive assistant”, my friends.   But hell, I like her.  I mean, I loathe everyone who is on this show for any reason, but I don’t loathe her as much as I loathe, say, Michelle.   For a random example.   Anyway, Chantal puts on her workout clothes for her date and Brad is excited to see if she’s going to be all needy and crappy and cry and stuff or if she’s just going to be fun because he’s had ENOUGH of other people’s neediness, don’t they know the show is called THE BACHELOR?  Not “the girls”.   It is about him!  Brad!  Let’s not forget!   Damn Chantal and her tears!   Of course, they have ALL cried on this program, except Britt, who appears to not even really exist, so why he’s singled out Chantal is a mystery but I suspect Brad has nothing to do with it, the producers just told him to tell her that, so he did.   This just in:  BRAD IS A ROBOT!  It’s true!   OK, I made it up.   But who cares?

They go ziplining.   Ziplining is featured so often on this show that I’m beginning to think that the reason why my own relationship failed is due to the lack of ziplining and rapelling we did while we were dating.   We skipped right to the mortgage and kids!  MISTAKE.   Anyway, somehow ziplining without weeping has reassured Brad of Chantal’s love, and in case he’s confused, she actually tells him that she’s in love with him which is totally off-putting and now I don’t like Chantal.   Seriously, Chantal, WHY would you love Brad?   He’s said and done NOTHING for the entire season to merit love.   Apart from clarifying again and again how serious he is about finding a wife (drink!) and how much “work” he’s done with his blue-shirted therapist (who apparently couldn’t make the trip), he has said NOTHING ABOUT ANYTHING.   Does Brad have any interests?  Who knows?   Does he ever think about anything apart from himself?   Doubtful!   Had he ever had a hobby?   It’s a mystery!   Does he … have a job?   Read books?   Have an interest in current affairs?   DOES BRAD HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR?   No one will ever know!

I, for the record, do NOT love Brad.

Anyway, blah blah.   Next up, a group date!  Michelle is homicidal because Chantal and Brad had sexy time in the jungle!  Calm down, Michelle, it wasn’t sexy time!  There was rain.   Who cares?  They kissed.  IT IS ALL BRAD KNOWS HOW TO DO.   Anyway, crazy Michelle nearly loses her mind because they are going to be rappelling and he sworesies that he would only ever rappel with her!    He is cheat-rappelling!   What a bastard!   Christ on a bike!   Next thing you know, he’s gonna be making OUT with other women, too!  It always STARTS with rappelling, and next thing you know, you’ve got chlamydia!   I know, right?

So Michelle boringly repeats all her previous craziness and bulges her eyes at the camera and pretends that insanity is sexxxy.   We all start looking for something, anything, with alcohol content in order to make this show more palatable, sort of like how if you pour a bunch of wine into crappy spaghetti sauce, it tastes better.

There is almost certainly an after-party to do with the rappelling but I miss it.   Let’s assume it has hot tubs.   I think one of my kids threw up or something so I walked away and didn’t bother rewinding even though I recorded the show, a fact more shameful than any other thing I know about myself.

Next up, Allie!  Or Ally!   Or Alli!   She gets a one on one!  She’s so excited!   They are going to the altar!   Alli is so misguided that she actually thinks they are getting married!  Or something!  She is giddy!  Doesn’t she know that she’s got the bad date?   Well, she does.   Stupidly, she told the producers that she was terrified of bugs so naturally, she is sent to an underground cave that is full of bugs and bats.   She’s game though because at the end of it, there is an ALTAR!   Except there isn’t, Alli.   Sorry.   It’s some stone steps, deep underground.   And a picnic!   Except… what?  Wait?  I SAW a picnic blanket and maybe I blacked out or fell asleep or just started compulsively playing Scrabble on my iPad because when I looked up, they appeared to be at — if not an actual restaurant, then some sort of restuarant-like place that was decidedly NOT in the muddy, bug-infested, bat-swarmed cave.   Over dinner, Brad tells Alli that he’s really mostly into sexually aggressive girls who don’t eat and lick his tonsils in lieu of bothering with the chicken, and he sends her home, the hardest thing he’s EVER had to do.  Really, Brad?  THAT was the hardest?

Hellz bellz, 1110 words.  That is too many words.   There is a rose ceremony!  Jackie goes home!  Britt, who doesn’t exist for the rest of the time, gets a rose!   Michelle is psycho!   Brad makes her cry!  Except not really!   Because she’s a robot, too!

OKthxbai.

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My battery only has 5% left, which I will use as a benchmark for the amount of time I’m willing to spend typing about this travesty of a season in which Brad snivels and whines about finding love and women weep to get his attention.   Every week I see this show, I lose more of my faith in humanity.  Given that I’d give my faith in humanity about a 2 to begin with, we don’t have many more points to lose.   This show may destroy me!  Evidently, I hate myself because, once again, I tuned in to watch Brad wimp around with a bunch of sobbing, emotionally dysfunctional women with daddy-complexes for something like TWO HOURS.  Why is this show so LONG?

OK, so.  First of all, SQUEEE! They are leaving Los Angeles!  Squee! Squeeeee!  For a few minutes, it sounded like Chris Harrison had walked into the room with fifteen straight pins and started popping balloons.   Oh, ha ha.  How I crack me up.   Anyway, the women are VERY EXCITED that they are now on the hook to act like Las Vegas is rilly, truly the City of Dreams, instead of what we know that it really is, which is the City Where Your Dreams Go To Get Addicted to Gambling, Drugs, Hookers, and All-Day Breakfasts.  But what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas!  Except in this case, where it is boringly broadcast to the nation.

So first up, Brad takes Shawntel shopping, an event that makes him look suicidally bored and in desperate need of a Vicodin.   Which are EASY to get in Vegas, I’m sure.  I’ve never been, but somehow I imagine Vicodin vendors are interspersed between Gucci and Orange Julius stands.   I don’t know why this is what I imagine.  I have a vivid imagination.  Which is why I did not need to hear Shawntel’s description of the “Vein Drain”.   Kill me.  But don’t, because then my VEINS WILL BE DRAINED.   I will need therapy once this show is over and not the kind doled out by the blue-shirted follow who spouts meaningless quotes as though, if added together, they will all combine to actually give meaning to Brad’s meaningless life.   But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Shawntel goes back to the hotel and the women all gang together and stab her to death in order to grab the stuff she got for free, which Brad implied he was paying for, but we all know was just Vegas vomiting out a bunch of crap in the hopes that you’ll want to go there and actually spend $5000 on that bag.   The other women are desperately unhappy because Shawntel once again got to act out “every woman’s fantasy”, which is — as we all know — to be a hooker with a heart of gold and Richard Gere’s credit card.   Oh, the dream.  Dream big, girls!   You are in Vegas, after all.   Anyway, Shawntel gets to see fireworks from the roof of the mall (seriously, let them go to a restaurant for the love of Mike) and the other women all nearly die falling out the window to watch.   (Apparently the show does not permit anyone to leave the room when dates are on, presumably so no one sneaks up onto the roof where the date is taking place and pushes the other contestant off it.)

My battery!  My battery!   Dagnabbit.   1%!  I will type fast!

Next up, a group date!  Contrived by the producers to make Emily cry, thus garnering all Brad’s attention!  Like Pavlov’s dogs, these women learned early that sobbing gets them a helpless looking Brad, patting them on the head like unruly children, but any attention is good attention and they can all practically cry on cue.   The other women cry because Emily is getting the pat on the head that THEY DESERVE because THEY HAVE PROBLEMS TOO!  And the whole idea that this show specifically selected women with mental health issues is proven again and again.

The crying gets boring, so I stop paying attention, and when I look up again, the Ashleys are battling it out for Brad’s love.  One of them wins, which hardly matters because he’s not going to pick either of them.   Trust me.   The younger of the two, Ashley S., is sort of heart-breaking in that too-young-for-this-crap way.   She’s a pretty girl with nice hair, but depressingly strives to be a hooker with a heart of gold, and cannot recover from the loss of her father.  What she needs is a proper therapist and, you know, some career counselling.  She does NOT need an insipid, self-centered dick with a sweat problem and a need to constantly cathart about his “issues”, which means that Brad really did her a favour.   Ashley, send him a thank you card!   For realsies.

Blah blah blah.   After a very long commercial for Cirque Du Soleil’s new show, somehow Brad and Ashley are attached to wires and dangled over the audience.   The Cirque should do a vampire show where the contestants on the Bachelor are dangled and then VAMPIRES SWOOP DOWN FROM THE SKY AND DRAIN THEIR VEINS.   I mean, that would be sick, but really, I’m just trying to liven this thing up with less crying and more dramatic screaming, perhaps.   Something.   Anything.

It would totally improve ratings, too, ABC.   I’m just saying.

I looked away again and when I looked back, Michelle was doing her best vampire impersonation, by trying to suck out Brad’s life-blood via his tongue.   This was so upsetting to my stomach that I had to go find some Pepto Bismol that expired in 2005 to swig like whisky from a brown paper bag.   When I got back, it was the rose ceremony and two women who I had never seen before in my life apparently were sent home.  I didn’t know he could dismiss the interns, but whatever.  Who cares?   This is less than 1000 words.  1% battery power.   WIN.

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