I don’t care that you just broke my heart, I love you. – Desiree Hartsock

desI’m not a fun person to watch TV with. I toss expletives, and spoil plots that are as obvious as toupees. When, on this season of The Bachelorette, there were three men remaining, I knew which one Des would choose.

“Let me see. Two men said they love her; one didn’t. She wants Brooks–the one who didn’t.”

“That’s crazy.”

“No, that’s human nature: We tend to value that for which we struggle over things handed to us.”

[Spoiler alert!]

Naturally, my prediction comes true. Brooksie confesses he’s not quite “there,” and leaves Des with substantial face leakage. To save some face of his own, he blubbers and squeals about how conflicted he is.

Maybe I do love her. No, I can’t picture myself spending the rest of my life with her. But, she’s wonderful. I hate hurting her. Wow, she really does love me. Maybe, I should love her. Well, I’m certainly going to have access to a new universe of fine ladies. But, they’ll just want me because of my fame and flowing locks. Des is awesome. Damn.

Then, Des floods the set with nobody-ever-loves-me tears.

What’s wrong with me? Why won’t he love me? He acted like he loved me. What did I do? Did my brother get involved somehow? Why can’t I find love? I know, two other guys love me, but I don’t love them. I love Brooks. Well, I used to love him. Now, I hate him. He made me look like an ass on TV. No, he was just being honest. It’s my fault. I do love him. If he changes his mind, I can’t take him back. This is so difficult. Why did I sign up for this? Oh, that’s right: money and fame. Ugh.

Whenever there’s predictably questionable activity by humans, I look for evolutionary reasons. (It’s so much easier to be religious and say, “That’s just the way God wants it.” I don’t have the luxury of that excuse.) Why do we shy away from what we know we need, even when it’s handed to us? Are we jaded? Do we fear it’s too good to be true? Are we embarrassed because we don’t feel we’ve earned it? Why struggle to win someone over? Will your fight for him change how he feels? If something is handed to you, do you fear a hidden trap or catch?

Evolution taught us to prefer our own kills, especially the difficult ones.

If Brooks changes his mind after messing his hair, walking in circles, and squealing like a hungry piglet, should Des shrug off his initial rejection and allow him on bended knee? Hell, no, she shouldn’t. If she does, she’ll be doing it to make the producers happy. If she takes him back, she won’t be able to shake the memory that he didn’t want her until he hurt her. In fact, she’ll torture him by reminding him of his prime-time misdeed each time he missteps.

Let’s fight our obsolete evolutionary remnants. Not only should we look a gift horse on the mouth, we should accept it graciously.

 

It’s not where you are today that counts. It’s where you are headed. #bachelor

bachelorlindsay(quote by Arthur F. Lenehan)

True, but it’s also important to know how you got here, so you know what to avoid. For example, if you’re on a bit of a sexual blue funk, that next martini is likely to get you closer to doing something regrettable. Make sure nobody sees you. Let’s hope your slump-buster has enough common sense to not tag you in a picture from the hotel.

If where you are today is curbside with your luggage because you’ve been booted (a la Lindsay from The Bachelor), you definitely should heed the advice and have convenient amnesia. Don’t play the silly woe-is-me game like Lindsay did.

“I don’t want to be left all alone. I want to grow old with someone.”

Really? That’s what you’re afraid of? Let’s see–you’re tiny, smart, gorgeous, funny, and twenty-fucking-four. Millions of men watched you be cute while ole hairless chest hopped from hole to hole like a handsome blond bunny. You enjoyed two months of significant TV exposure. Suffice it to say that you’ll have a few (thousand) more opportunities than the average gal.

It’s not important that you are posted up solo on a curb. It’s where you are headed, which means a virtual jungle of hungry wolves you’re going to have the displeasure of weeding from your luscious garden. Think of the average female fan, sitting in the tell-all audience. You know the options she has? The guy who’s in town for a conference, who insists he’s single and rich. The ex-boyfriend who keeps showing up drunk on her doorstep. The guy from work who looks at her that way, although he’s thirty years her senior. The man she just had to meet, according to her friend. He was quite a treat considering he lived with his parents, had enough nose hair to weave an afghan, and suggested they split the tab.

No, Lindsay won’t need to worry about dating the average ding-dong. She’ll not need to dim the lights, hold her nose, dress him in black, attend beer softball games, camp out at NASCAR races, or bear any of the typical nonsense suffered by low-exposure women. Not Lindsay. She has probably been solicited by Kobe and dozens of other celebrities–both married and single–since the public dumping. Not only will she avoid loneliness, she’ll crave serenity.

Ladies, don’t be sad when that seat next to you is vacant. That’s a good thing. Vacancy equals opportunity. That extra seat, while waiting to host the firm buns of Mr. Next, can be re-purposed for storing purses, shoes, and fine bottles of wine not wasted on an unappreciative, hairy man-monkey. You may also store containers of dark chocolate nonpareils, plates of warm brie with garlic pita chips, and buckets of truffle popcorn. In extreme cases, you can teach a pooch to sit there (quietly, please).

So, wipe your eyes, blow your nose, look straight into the camera and say, “Fuck him, if he doesn’t appreciate the fineness of my fabulous fruit. Thank you, Chris Harrison. Now, let the penis parade begin.”

What it lies in our power to do, it lies in our power not to do.

ashlee(quote by Aristotle)

Some of my lovely lady friends may need a little manology refresher. Lesson #1: Men will say whatever needs to be said to have sex with you. Lesson #1b: Ejaculation causes amnesia.

On this week’s The Bachelor: Women Tell All, Sean is confronted and caught in a lie. AshLee insists he claimed to have no feelings for the other two women, and that she was the one he would choose. Four days later, he casts her away like a gum wrapper.

Naturally, the folks at ABC can’t plant cameras behind the closed doors of the overnight, fantasy suite dates. (If they did, it certainly would improve the ratings.) Yet, having been through a few overnights, I have a good idea how the conversation went.

“Sean, I’m falling in love with you. I’m so excited to spend tonight alone.”

“Aw. You’re incredible, AshLee.” (I wish that hairless, giant toe-head would learn that describing someone as incredible is not a fucking compliment.)

“Do you have an extra pair of boxers and T-shirt I can wear to bed?”

“Ha, ha. Won’t need those, silly.”

“What? Look, you’re very sexy, but I’m not that kind of girl.”

“If you say so. It’s fine. We don’t need to have sex. I’m sure the other two ladies don’t have intentions of having sex on our sleepovers either.”

“You’d have sex with them?”

“I don’t know. I guess if it feels right, anything can happen. Still, you’re the one I’m most attracted to by far. I’ll try to behave, but it has been a while, you know?”

“Making love with you would be amazing, Sean, but maybe we should wait until after the show. It’s only another week.”

“Absolutely. Heck, I don’t need to have sex with a woman before I propose marriage to her in front of millions. There are never any incompatibilities that arise. It’s fine. Let’s get to bed and rest up. I have two more overnights, and a lot of decisions to make.”

“OK, maybe we can play around a little, if you really want to.”

“Nah, it’s fine. No biggie. I’ll behave. You’re so incredible, though, I apologize in advance if my hands wander a bit. You’re hard to resist.”

“Tell you what: I’ll sleep in panties only, but they’re not coming off, mister.”

“Really? Hm.”

“You’re not going to have sex with the other two girls, are you?”

“AshLee, you’re the one for me. I don’t have strong feelings for the others.”

“I’m just worried that you’re telling me all of this so I give in, then you’ll leave me curbside like my parents did. Sorry. I have this abandonment thing.”

“I’m a gentleman, AshLee. I’m not that kind of guy. You have nothing to worry about. You’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

“I love you so much.”

Roll forward through the cuddling, kissing, fondling, mounting, and after-splat. Her fear materializes into a leaky-eyed limo ride. She confronts Sean. He nervously denies everything. She’s hurt and confused, hoping he dumped her for non-sexual reasons that arose after their overnight. Professor Phil insists he ditched her because sex with the other two was better, and it’s likely he knew she was gone before the overnight, but he was in the rare position to take advantage of a lovely specimen with no price to pay.

The moral, ladies, is a man will say what needs to be said, and do what needs to be done in order to mate with reluctant prey. Then, he’ll deny or forget it all. Best to take control with these five little words:

“Shut up, and fuck me.”

Reasons why superlatives suck the most.

I’m feeling extra sensitive. Perhaps I’m going through man-o-pause. As I watched The Bachelorette finale last night, I hugged a pillow, sipped chardonnay, and dabbed my eyes with Kleenex. (OK, not really.) When Jef piled on the superlatives by claiming Emily was the most beautiful, smartest, kindest, best woman/mother, he forgot to add those four words to make it acceptable: “for me right now.” Even if he did, it would be technically inaccurate. Without using those words he insulted other fine women as well as more-deserving men.

He also bragged about how God brought this perfect person into his life. So, God spurned all other men to bless His High-Hairness? God decided that Emily is the woman most worthy of the “best woman ever” title? Me thinks he should thank Lord Harrison instead. He should also thank the producers for stocking the pond with so many douche-guppies.

When a woman gushes to me about her man, my sarcasm generator kicks in forcing me to tilt my head and utter, “Is he?”

“He is the most wonderful man in the world.”
“Right, the New York firefighters who run into crumbling buildings couldn’t compare.”

“He’s my best friend.”
“Right, and a dog is his best friend, so you’re a runner-up to something that eats its own vomit.”

“He’s the sexiest man alive.”
“Right, go watch Magic Mike and give it a few days to sink in.”

“He’s the most romantic person who ever lived.”
“Right, this will come in handy when you stop putting out and he needs to land a mistress.”

Rarely do men brag to other men about their mates. Thank goodness. When they do, it’s typically something sexual about an impermanent lover. On rare occasion, when Mr. Clueless decides to gush to me about his wife, my shield of sarcasm deflects the blows.

“My wife is the best mother.”
“Really? Guess I’ll fly east and get that title belt from my mother who raised thirty foster babies.”

“She’s my best friend. She knows me better than anyone.”
“Right, I’m sure she always dreamed of being a you expert.”

“She’s the sexiest woman alive. She can’t get enough of me.”
“You don’t get out much, do you?”

“She’s the most loyal woman in the world. I trust her completely.”
“Right, I’m sure her last boyfriend said the same thing. Her loyalty is indirectly proportional to her opportunities.”

Well, maybe I’m the most jaded man in the world, who continues to shoot himself in the foot by keeping it firmly planted in reality.

Baggage isn’t bad; it’s practical.

Emily (The Bachelorette) threw a fit this season when one of the contestants referred to her child as baggage. His honesty also drew the ire of female viewers as they hissed every time the camera was on him. He was pressured into apologizing, which came off as inauthentic and made things worse.

Em, while it was cute to hear you assert yourself by saying, “Get the fuck out,” you need to check your shit. Everybody has baggage; that doesn’t make it bad. If you meet someone without baggage, that person is hiding his baggage in the closet. If you meet someone who says he is blessed by having the opportunity to handle your baggage, he’s lying to gain your approval.

Baggage needs to be considered when you enter into a relationship. Some is light and insignificant and some is bulky and ever-present.

This is baggage:

  • children
  • pets
  • overbearing relatives
  • exes who haven’t let go
  • debt
  • jobs that require long days or travel
  • smoking
  • church/politics
  • furnishings
  • obsessions about exercise, diet, or TV shows

This list goes on.

The person carrying the baggage may be perfectly capable of carrying it without imposing on you. Other people may be actively seeking someone to help with baggage handling. It’s up to you whether lending a hand will be worthwhile (appreciated) or painful. You must consider if you’re willing to make this person’s baggage your baggage.

I find as I get older, my capacity for handling others’ baggage diminishes. If lending a hand causes stress, it injures me because stress kills. If I see it as an investment, it’s almost twice as bad because I’ll be hoping she returns the favor, which, if she does, will probably cause her stress.

We should each take inventory of our baggage, and become aware of what it takes to handle it. The better we can handle our own, the more attractive we become. That doesn’t mean stuffing it under the bed and acting as though it doesn’t exist. It means being able to admit, “I have this baggage, I’m handling it, and I still have a free hand to hold you.”

ABC Announces the Next Bachelor: Satan

In light of recent seasons featuring too much sobbing and not nearly enough violence, ABC has decided to cast none other than the Prince of Darkness to get rating backs where they belong.

“Recent contestants have caused numerous douche chills with their incessant whining and blubbering,” according to independent TV ratings. “Female viewers seem turned off by high hair, hairless chests with little-boy nipples, and runny noses. It’s obviously time to insert a bad boy.”

And, who could fill the role better than the angry beast from Hades? We stopped by his steamy pad in the bowels of the earth, and interviewed the new bachelor (AKA Jimmy Mac) about his role.

“So, Mac, what are your expectations for this season?”
“I’ll tell ya one thing for sure: There will be lots of fuckin’.”
“Wow. Anything else?”
“I may gnaw some toes off the ones who annoy me, and slap others with a trout. It all depends on my mood.”
“Is there anyone you’re hoping to connect with?”
“Well, since that horse-lipped hedge-head Ben stole Courtney away, I’m not confident the talent will be up to my standards. Courtney would have made the perfect bride. Damn it. Guess I’ll wait until she breaks down and starts hitting the pipe. Hey, speaking of chicks on that slippery slope to rehab, where’s Vienna?”

ABC has been silent about who the contestants will be, but they did leak three of the names to whet the media’s appetite. Here’s your first look at who might wind up your Princess of Darkness.

Raychel – She’s a blogger from down under who enjoys casting imaginary spells and mashing vegemite into her forehead.

Robbin – Known for her uncanny ability to stuff an entire beer bottle (not a twelve, yo–a forty) into her baby hole, this one must be an early favorite.

Susie – This bulbous skank from Kentucky has been preparing to suckle Satan by ingesting gallons of horse semen before each derby.

Some of the romantic destinations for dream dates allegedly include a rest stop in Idaho, a Dumpster behind Taco Bell in Tijuana, and a large medical waste container containing aborted fetuses and Larry King’s scrotum.

It will be a season to remember.

What are you crying about?

Are you watching The Bachelor? What’s with all the crying, fainting, and cattiness? Is it the alcohol? Even Ben is starting to wear on me. The producers sure know how to whip these kittens into a frenzy.

I appreciate an emotional woman–to a point. I don’t want to be on a date sitting across from a plank with a Sharpie-drawn face. I want smiling, laughing, and occasional frowning (those hidden by Botox need not apply). There should be gesturing. Show off those pretty nails, Tiggerpoo. Lean in toward me, touch my hand, wink, giggle, and be animated. But, please, don’t overdo it.

One of the ladies this week got so worked up she fainted. That’s fucked up. If she passed out because she put a hurting on Don Julio, I’d applaud it. She fainted because she was worried about not being selected. Her fainting probably sealed that deal. Sure, there’s pressure involved when millions watch what amounts to a playground kickball team selection replayed every week. Nobody wants to go unselected. Still, should you be losing consciousness over it? I think not. Take a fucking chill pill, or get your medicinal marijuana card, you weak-kneed ninny.

My man, Ben, is transforming from a nice guy with horrible taste in women, into an arrogant lip-smacker with an artificially inflated ego and horrible taste in women. When a dozen prime vaginas are tossed your way, it’s natural to feel a bit godlike. Still, he’s tongue wrestling every woman in the house, without flossing or Purelling his face. (Maybe that goes on off-camera, but I doubt it.) I’d expect a few of these women to block Ole Plunger-Face after seeing him slobber on the competition.

Like in previous seasons, many of these leaky-eyed drama queens claim to be falling in love. How is that possible? Even if they were fed cocktails laced with oxytocin, Rufinol, and fireman sweat, there’s no way they’d be falling in love after some brief meetings spread over a few weeks. They may be falling in love with the idea of falling in love in front of a huge audience and the possibility of fame dollars. They’re not falling in love with Shaggy, the winemaker. I call shenanigans.

This drama feeds into the corruption of the nice guy. One smitten kitten curls up under the covers and weeps. The producers grab Ben and shove him into the room. Ben plays hero, dries her eyes, tells her it will all be OK, and then kicks her sobbing ass to the curb in front of millions. Nice.

Another woman is upset because nobody likes her–which she brought on herself–so she hides in the corner of a room behind luggage and sniffles. The producers shine the bachelor light and shove Ben into the scene to save the day. Oh, how I wish he would have (gently) slapped her on the butt and told her to snap out of it. But, no-o-oh. Instead he consoles her, reinforcing the hero image.

Yes, it’s TV. I understand. Many of my mating targets watch it, so I have to fucking deal with it. Piss me off. It’s hard enough to get past their cat allergies. I don’t want my women playing victim to see me don the cape. Ben’s converting me into a prick, vicariously. Perhaps, chick lit would cure me.

Bachelors and bachelorettes have talent, America.

When this popped up on my Facebook stream, I admit I felt it deserved further investigation. The teaser said it featured two stars from The Bachelor showing their Cirque du Soleil skills. I love those pliable clowns wearing all that makeup. The Cirque performers are talented too.

How could I resist?

I clicked, viewed, and realized it’s as sensible as a picture of me tossing a crumpled piece of paper showing my skill of throwing 100MPH fastballs. Stupid. In the picture, Tenley and Kypton (ew, their names even annoy me) are playing a dumb game of airplane that children play. It’s not cute; it’s dangerous.

Sure, the picture shows Tennie beaming as she soars over freakishly strong Kyppie, but we all need to know what happened next!

  • She fell and smashed the dog, which means no more dog-sitting jobs for the talented duo.
  • One of her earrings came loose and lodged itself in Kyppie’s throat.
  • She took it up a notch by adding the other fun game of letting a spit pendulum hang toward his face and sucking it back just before it touches his nose.
  • She fell backwards and smashed the TV.
  • They realized a strange person was in the home kneeling next to them while holding a camera and simultaneously screamed.
  • Tennie noticed that Kyppie left his “god damn sneakers” under the sofa again.
  • Kyppie realized his pink toenail polish could use some retouching.
  • They chest-bumped and began planning how to spend all the money they were paid for the “exclusive.”

See the exclusive picture and article on WetPaint.com.

    Desperation

    Women can smell desperation and it stinks. I cringed as I watched Ryan on The Bachelorette beg and plead Ashley to reconsider.

    “Please take me back. Please give me another chance.”

    No chance, dumb-dumb. Pussies get no pussy. The last thing any woman wants in her man is a sniveling little puppy tripping her up while he dances around her ankles. She doesn’t want to be doing the emotional propping–that’s a man’s job.

    Don’t get me wrong; women love men who will aggressively pursue them as long as these men are attractive, successful, and confident. Once the line is crossed toward begging, men become as attractive as tobacco spit in the Arizona sun.

    The man can’t be aloof either. He has to show interest, step up, stand back, and convince the woman he’s in demand. Nothing of value is easily obtained. I have a number of female friends who are nothing more than street value enhancers for me. My targets assume I must have something significant going on to be hanging with such lovely ladies. I’m careful to give the proper impression that the candy is sweet, but not mine to eat. The target Tootsie becomes confident that I’m not the average creeper, and leaves me an opening. Closing the deal is another issue.

    Back to this Ryan wussy.

    When he sees Ashley, he gets all giggly and nervous. Worst of all, he tells her so (as if she wouldn’t notice).

    “Aw shucks. Gee. You sure are cute. I have butterflies. Tee hee.”

    His voice cracks, his hands shake, his breath becomes shallow, and his pussy shows. All Ashley can think is, I have to be kind and compassionate because the cameras are on. If the cameras were off, she’d probably laugh and tell the toad to slap some Miracle Grow on his testicles.

    “When we first met, I had this feeling and I knew we were meant to be together.”

    No, my man, the feeling you had was fame-addiction. You were pissed because you were tossed back into insignificance. So, you begged Chris to let you come back on the show and extend your fifteen minutes of fame. Chris, being a wise marketer and producer, saw this as a prime opportunity to tease his viewers and expose your swinging labia. You bit and Ashley didn’t. Har-de-fucking-har.

    No matter what Ashley says about Bentley (the guy who shunned her), he’s the man who makes her damp–not the Nadal doppelgangers, not the John Cena wannabe, and certainly not Mr. Heart-Palpitations-in-Pink-Panties. Bentley is confident. He’s the alpha male. He’d keep her on her toes. Ryan will keep her looking for excuses to work late and feign yeast infections.

    If Ryan had a drop of testosterone and common sense, he would have said, “I’ll have you know I’ve been rejected by less attractive women. Once the bright lights are unplugged, you’ll realize there’s no room for two attention whores in one relationship. Then, you can call me. If I’m single, I might give you a shot. If not, hey, you had your chance.”

    Nadal Plays Roles for The Bachelorette

    ABC cut costs filming this season of The Bachelorette by having Rafael Nadal play the parts of two of the bachelors when he wasn’t busy smacking the shit out of tennis balls.

    “I’m surprised it took six weeks for people to notice,” said Nadal. “It’s amazing what a little hair gel can do for a fellow.”

    Bachelorette, Ashley, admitted she was confused when the producers employed various tactics to fool her. The first few weeks they had the Ben version accept the rose and then while she returned to the dish of roses he tossed it aside, gave his hair a shug-shuga-shug, and took his position on the opposite end as Constantine.

    “My fans know I have mastered the volley as speeding back and forth across the court is second nature to me. That little crybaby never noticed. Ha, ha, ha!”

    Ashley started to catch on last week when the producers took a chance.

    “We underestimated her intelligence,” associate producer Bob Finkleberg lamented. “Usually a high-pitched voice and big hair come with a large dose of oblivion.”

    At last week’s rose ceremony, the producers placed a full-length mirror next to the Ben version of Nadal. Ashley stared at it like a cat watching a circus juggler. Show host, Chris Harrison, finally became frustrated with the television silence and slapped her in the back of the skull.

    “That’s when I realized something was amiss,” remarked Ashley. “Constantine must have gotten the squirts from those oysters last night and he couldn’t make the rose ceremony. What a clever group of producers we have on this show! I can totally see how viewers didn’t notice a thing.”

    “Actually, I was wrong,” recanted Finkleberg, “she is absolutely as dumb as seaweed.”

    Nadal has been a good sport about the whole thing.

    “I thought for sure she’d select one version of me over the other and not both. That would have simplified things. Then I almost twisted my ankle at the last ceremony when I was distracted by the reflection off the forehead of that Ames dude. God, what a melon!”

    The producers are hoping Ashley comes to her senses this week and keeps only one or neither of the doppelgangers, as Nadal really needs to get back on the pro circuit.

    “We’re going to try a Sesame Street game with her,” explained Chris. “Here, I’ll sing a verse for you: One of these things is not like the other. One of these things just isn’t the same. You get the picture, right? I’ll sing it to Ashley while she stares at three versions of Nadal and a crumpet. If she picks the crumpet, there will be a week eight. If she doesn’t, I’m going to dowse myself in 151 Rum and dive into the fireplace. I can’t take this shit much longer.”

    Be sure to tune in tonight and play along with Ashley as she receives subtle clues about the ruse ABC is pulling on her while she continues fantasizing about that douche Bentley.

    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 hand job. 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