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.
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