Week two still falls in that part of the movie where ever character is speaking in sweeping explanations of the landscape, making classic dialogue and character development impossible. What’s worse, this is not a movie. This is a group of non-essential employees from various companies that are half-heartedly competing to loan a Neil Lane diamond to a woman posing as a DA before they breakup in a magazine your wife (or you) reads exclusively to deal with the anxiety of takeoff and landing on airplanes when it’s too early in the morning for a cocktail (although, I don’t buy into time=alcohol acceptability).
Time’s a fat circle, yo.
The meat popsicles arrive at the Bachelor Mansion and set the record for “most excited people ever to arrive in Agoura Hills” and I know. I was the president of Agoura High. There’s all this fruit in the kitchen and also a table full of apples, bananas too. One of the apples was bruised too. Below the eye. What happened last week?
Explorer gets the first date and HELICOPTER! I blacked out for twenty minutes because this was such a make-good for last season. We barely waited a week to be rewarded with our first aerial romance inducer. The love was flowing and so was this awful theme of “dudes wearing sweatshirts without shirts underneath them.” Look, just like Lululemon (you heard me guys in the Marina), just because you saw someone rock this in a catalogue doesn’t mean you can. It’s like spring in LA and you are fighting the season and worse, you are dressing like your mother let you pick your outfit. Nothing screams “you are going to need to remind me to brush my teeth every day” like wearing sweatshirts with nothing underneath. It’s called Northern Commando and unless it’s done by necessity, it’s bad form. It’s a devil-may-care look and you are doing it intentionally, which defeats the purpose. MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON YOUR SOUL™.
Date one tho…
It was pretty much the visual representation of the douchey thing all Southern Californians say to anyone regarding why it’s so great to live there, only I don’t know anyone who’s ever done it. Basically, “I can snowboard in the morning and surf in the afternoon”– and sit in 6 hours of traffic between San Bernardino and the PCH also. I mean it’s cool, but think of all the things you could potentially do in life. I mean, I could eat breakfast in the Willamette River and have dinner in Tokyo. I could kill a man and bury him in Kentucky and take a tour of the bourbon distilleries. I could expose myself to a bus filled with seniors on a Grand Canyon tour.
We can do a lot of shit. We don’t. We watch BAD TELEVISION™.
The part of this date that was not cool was Louie Vito shows up to give a snowboard lesson to BABY TEETH™ and it put Eric in the corner. He had been feeling pretty good about his CARELESS BEACH BACKFLIP™ earlier, but now a soprano-voiced, gnar-shredded was doing the one instructional activity on par with the perviness of teaching a girl to golf.
Later, a story about Syria and how he’d give that all up for a woman. He likes the danger. He likes the romance. He likes letting Louie Vito steal his thunder.
Date card shows up back at the mansion and every year the men get more like the women when they read each other’s names. More and more, the men selected are this horrible time capsule of men from the mid 2000s, the kind of people that still remember storylines from Entourage and probably cannot wait for the movie to come out. Dudes that somehow didn’t understand it is 100% manlier to spill half your burrito on your dress shirt and not care despite your girlfriend thinking it’s WWIII than to shave your chest hair and spray tan. If your grooming routine allows you to share multiple products with your wife, you probably need to club a baby seal and eat it raw and get in touch with what made our species Darwinize.
So, after about twenty minutes of dudes not knowing the difference between “bear” and “bare,” eventually they went to Laurel Canyon and Sunset (I guess Crescent Heights) and went to a night club where they entered to find Magic Mike breaking out. Honestly, have you ever seen straight dudes more excited about seeing male strippers? Look, I’m a 23rd Century Male. I’ve been to every kind of club from WeHo to Old Town PDX and I can hang anywhere and have a good time. I guess I’ve just never gone into a fist pumping seizure at the sight of men in kevlar stripping down rapidly to prove they are the dong police.
Most of this was fairly boring, but I’ll say a few things.
I learned from a man wearing a blazer with no undershirt that Firefighters are one of the most popular female fantasies. #noted.
SeanBro needs a mother figure in his life. He was wearing a tank top to show off his misguided attempt at what women are looking for in a body outside of Wet Dayclub in Vegas black out drunk on a mission to have a sorority “what was I even thinking #yolo” story. Better than the tank top was the fact he was wearing a ladies hyper-thin sweatshirt around his neck like an infinity scarf. Damn.
I thought making the dude who shaved his chest from the nipples down (ok?) do a Top Gun dance when he looks just like Goose was messed up.
But the highlight was Chris Harrison slapping that ass. For real. I mean, I know he blew a line of Angel Dust off one of these guys’ lower backs and I hate the producers for robbing me of that moment. But I love Chris Harrison and I think he’s hitting that age they depict in Viagra commercials, where he is in total command and he knows what to do with the problems in his life. Divorce? Drank. Host a bad show? Drank. Male stripping? Drank.
Sharleen was there with Dog Lover which was depressing because you never truly leave the Bachelor. But for context, it’s great that this Opera Singer had free time on a Tuesday afternoon to watch amateur male stripping without being paid. CAREER GOING WELL™.
Craig, who I dub OH SNAP! (because his face gets red any time he talks and he’s about to yell OH SNAP to start every sentence) was this season’s version of the person who blacks out at a cocktail party. I’ll give him this, he did it right. He ran into walls, shoved dudes telling them to fuck off, he went swimming and lost motor control. I mean, honestly he really brought it. He had to be restrained by the producers (also in infinity scarves-in spring-in LA). He was drinking Fireball, so I knew it was coming. It’s puke juice. And terrible. Whiskey already has the best flavor. Whiskey. If a man loves Fireball, date a different man.
What was most disturbing was how badly BABY TEETH™ took this. She was easily the second drunkest person at the party. She went into a WHAT THE EFF THESE PEOPLE AREN’T HERE FOR ME spiral in week two because one human was in the swimming pool. It took me right back to her getting mad at Wapalo not because he didn’t care about her, but because he didn’t lie and say he did. CONFIDENCE CRUSHER™.
She gives a drunk speech about FOR THE RIGHT REASONS™ and I took a shot of rum and ignored her and her goblin teeth. Side note, she’s on a mission to push up bra this season, yeah?
Also, worst extensions since Aly. Period. I think she yanked them out at some point. Like, fuck it bro. Just fuck it. Doesenteyevenmatter. Ezzaactly.
The former pro ballplayer – I dub him Crap Leinart – just swoops in and give her a lady boner. Good work. Big win for guys that don’t try hard everywhere. Andi says he’s the kind of dude she always goes for. Still goes for him. Consistent.
Next day they try to make Santa Anita look nice because these people weren’t worth the 50 dollar round trip to Del Mar on the Surfliner. Time is a Fat Circle was kind of a great dude. In fact, he’s not even fat. I’m just trying to peddle my wares here, people. Andi is not into him even a little bit, because like anyone on this show the goal is to make a failing choice, not a smart one.
At least at the end they are treated to signature RANDOM BAND™ of Linkin Park-looking guys that gave up and started playing what I call INOFFENSIVE PORTLAND BARISTA ROCK™.
While they do kiss, she goes ASS OUT™ and LEAN BACK™ which is the opposite of how she kisses Crap Leinart.
He gets a PITY ROSE™.
Cocktail party, OH SNAP! sings an awful apology. Andi gets drunk again and says “ya’ll” more and more with each shot of whatever. It’s her BLOOD ALCO-YA’LL LEVEL™.
Oh snap and some other dudes go home. Can we get down to ten dudes already and do this?