In what must surely be a sign of my childbirth-and-sleep-deprivation-induced drop in intelligence, I have once again allowed myself to be sucked into the Vortex of Evil that is The Bachelor.
[Picture me, now, shaking my fist at the sky and screaming to the heavens WHY? WHY? WHY?]
Don’t get me wrong. I know what an idiotic sham this show is. I hold no googly-eyed-teenage-girl dreams for a Happily Ever After ending, wherein the bachelor and his Chosen One walk hand-in-hand into the sunset as the orchestra swells the strains of “Love is a Many Splendored Thing.”
I mean, seriously. Think about the premise for a moment.
Let’s have 25 genetically enhanced and/or surgically altered women compete for the affections of one horny guy. We’ll have all the women live together, to attract a male audience, because as we all know, most men still hold out hope that beautiful women who room together have topless pillow fights. We’ll also throw in large doses of swimming pool and hot tub action, giving the audience plenty of gratuitous skin-baring, and furthering the chances for toplessness and/or complete nudity.
It’s absurd, really. But it’s the sheer absurdity of it that draws me in. The way these women fight like…well…catty women over a man they all met two minutes ago. The way the bachelor pretends to be searching for his One True Love, when it’s fairly obvious to the viewing audience how thrilled he is to be dating twenty-five women at once. “Oh, I just never imagined it would be so hard.” Yeah, buddy. We know exactly what’s hard here.
Some highlights from last night’s show:
In a “new and exciting twist,” the bachelorettes, most of whom were still asleep in their hotel rooms (a close-up of a clock showed it was 8:35 AM) were told they had five minutes to get ready and be downstairs to meet the bachelor (Charlie O’Connell, wannabe actor and brother of actor Jerry O’Connell). Chaos ensued, as most of the women were forced to prioritize…which is more important? A shower or contact lenses? Fresh breath or fresh pits? Makeup or hair? Several women met the bachelor in their pajamas, several others had no makeup on, etc. A few, however, looked dressed, made up, and ready to go, which totally PISSED OFF a few of the unshowered, bare-faced gals. “You know, some of these girls look like they had extra time getting ready.” Apparently, it never occurred to Miss Pissypants Sleepyhead that SOME people might have been up BEFORE the producers banged on the hotel room doors at eight-fargin-thirty in the morning.
In another “twist” (this season promises to be full of them…well, full of something, anyway), instead of the usual group meet-and-greet, each bachelorette had two minutes alone with the bachelor to make her first impression. (This was, apparently, a shortened version of the old junior high game Seven Minutes in Heaven.) One by one the bachelorettes filed through, each trying desperately to stand out…and by stand out I mean, of course, shove her bulbous, not-found-in-nature boobs in Charlie’s face, as Kimberley did.
Then there was professed swimsuit model Kristine, who dropped her dress for Charlie, revealing her itty-bitty bikini. She later “revealed,” during a group date, that she was a private investigator for the government, just before she engaged Charlie in what was possibly the longest, most awkward embrace I have ever seen.
Another highlight occurred during that same group date, when Charlie, our knight in shining armor (yeah, right) got snockered. After consuming drink after drink, including body shots, Charlie’s speech was obviously slurred; he was one beer commercial away from mumbling “I love you, man” to the nearest talking head. At that point I called my mother-in-law and laughed, “Oh my God, he’s soused!”
I should note here that the most fun I have watching The Bachelor, is in the phone conversations with my mother-in-law during the commercials. She’s a little more “in to” the show than I am, so I feel the need to call her on almost every commercial break, not only to remind her how ridiculous the whole thing is, but also to provide some comic relief. Last night we had many laughs over (and made many jabs at) Danushka, a former-model-turned-snooty-pants-snob.
LadyBug: I don’t like Danushka.
Mother-In-Law: Me either.
LB: What the heck kind of name is Danushka, anyway? It sounds like a douche.
MIL: [slightly nervous laughter, thinking Where is she going with this?]
LB: [in my Arnold Schwarzenegger Terminator voice] My nem ez Danushka. I am frlesh as a sprling flowa.
MIL: [laughing hysterically, in spite of the fact that I’m dissing her show, ’cause she’s fun like that]
I’m quite sure laughing with my mother-in-law is where my true addiction lies. I think I could easily give up the show, just not the running commentary. Well, maybe I could give up the show. Perhaps.
It’s a sickness, people.