Bachelorette Therapy


Dear Ashley,

WTF? I so want to toss a bucket of ice water on you right now–yes, to see your excitable nips, but more importantly to wake you up. You love Bentley while he’s playing you like Alicia Keys plays the piano. He’s an artist and the producers of your show are desperately seeking drama. You probably should have realized that long ago, when you were a contestant. Alas, you’re an oblivious lass. Wakey, wakey!

Hold on. No sobbing.

Monday’s episode was the first one I saw this season. You seem sweet enough and you’re cute too. I have to ask, what’s with the constant fiddling with your bangs? You don’t have extensions, do you? Hm. I could use some.

Wait. Please stop crying. I didn’t mean anything by it. OK. All good?

Did I mention how cute you are? Ah, there’s that smile. You have lovely legs too. Why are your knees so far apart?

OMG, I’m so sorry. Stop crying. Please? I love that little gap between your knees. Yes, really, I do. It’s so sexy. Gosh. Here’s a tissue. Dab that mascara, cutey-pie.

Now, I hate to bring up the B-word, but I need to. No, not beluga. Bentley! For heaven’s sake, you said his name no less than fifty times this week. That sucked for me. Why? Well, because I was playing a fun, new drinking game where I have a sip of my Belve Lemonade every time you say the B-word. I needed my stomach pumped before the rose ceremony. It wasn’t great.

I was touched by your reaction when Chris told you the B-word came halfway around the world just to see you. You do realize that ABC fucking paid him a shitbucket of money to do that, right? No, it wasn’t his idea.

Oh shit. Stop. Please stop crying. Oh, Jesus. Here, use my sleeve. No, don’t blow your … fine … that’s great. Calm down. Deep breath. OK?

How cute were you standing in front of his hotel room door hesitating to knock, covering your heart, and building your courage? Tender moments like that make it so much easier for me to pay my U-verse bill. So, then you tap-tap-tapped and (Gasp!), there was the B-word. Granted, he did have to ask who it was before he answered. We couldn’t expect him to use the fucking eyehole to see who it is. He’s in fucking China. Who else would it be? Jackass.

I’m sorry. No, please don’t start crying again.

I’m sure he’s wonderful in some category. He’d make a great husband for about a week before you caught him making love to himself in front of the full-length mirror three times a day. Did you like the way he touched your knee and tilted his head sympathetically as you laid down boundaries? It made you damp, didn’t it? Admit it, goddamn it, and snap out of it!

No … no … wait … stop crying. Fuck. Here, wipey-wipey again, my little Snifflepuss. Give Uncle Phil a hug. There. Feel better? Good.

Bentley is a fucking toad. He doesn’t respect you. When that type of man comes along, run away from, not toward him. You’re not in the business of breaking stallions. You’re looking for a husband and, frankly, your eye for talent is blind.

Are you welling up again? Christ.

You’re so cute, sexy, and smart, Ash. Stop falling for ABC’s ploy to make the show more interesting at your expense. When they bring Bentley back next time (and you know there will be a next time), invite him in, get naked, tie him to the bed, and hire a male masseuse to jump out of the closet and give him a Ben-Gay handjob. Then, put your Flip camera to good use.

See that? You turned that frown upside-down. Now, go get him, parenthesis legs.

Oh no … not again. Stop!

Yours with booger sleeves,
Uncle Phil

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Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.