Sorry to interrupt you from telling everyone on Facebook the ten most important albums to you when you were a teenager, but we should probably BachCap. I’m snowed in up in Portland and it’s getting like the Shining around here.
I need to start with a question: Is Nick really into this? Are we torturing Nick? I’ve never seen a Bachelor more robotic, more awkward and less confident than him.
Is his natural element tossing salt on the games of a house full of dumb jocks? Is it wearing too-tight bathing suits on a beach in Tulum?
With the bright lights of Monday night, niche reality entertainment shining upon him, he seems to shrink away from the camera. This would be fine if we had some big personalities amongst the women, but they seem like your average police line up at a Tempe drunk tank, so I have to ask: Where is the Bachelor this season of the Bachelor? I mean, besides not-at-a-speech-therapist.
We arrive at the mansion and can’t focus because no one is wearing make up and it’s confusing. There’s not even an errant eyelash stuck to the wall. It’s just a bunch of people thinking this isn’t a beauty contest. Nick was up at dawn getting waxed, spray tanning, tweezing anything the waxer missed, getting sugared where the tweezers were too time consuming, a little light yoga, a little heavy yoga, a little medium yoga (for balance) and a little yogurt (after yoga) because colonics are ‘spensive (I’m told). My wife just closed the browser.
Nick is DIALED IN™. You can’t just be au natural. This isn’t a Dove commercial. Put down your Dove bar and get DIALED IN™ as well or Nick’s going to cut you some asymmetrical bangs.
Nick starts off trying to explain more about his sexual encounter with Crazy Ex Girlfriend, but the girls either don’t care or can’t understand as his second tongue (he has two) seems to be playing ping pong with tongue one’s attempts to speak. Mainly, I think the kind of lady often still around in week three is the kind who understands this show best. She’s comfy with her sexuality and the fact that by week ten, if all goes well, if we’re all here for the right reasons, they’ll all be related.
Then the Backstreet Boys (who are now middle-aged) came in. You never expect the Muppets™.
You know how I know this date was 100% Nick’s fantasy (for some reason)? Let me submit to the court the following exhibit as evidence:
Effing Kevin was born in 1971. He’s 45. He literally could be most of these contestants’ father. And not in the way we say that about guys dating women too young for them (like Nick, who is too old for these women). I mean quite literally that if Kevin Scott Richardson slept with a groupie in the year Quit Playin’ Games With My Heart came out (1996), she’d be 21. So yes. Literally. Their Dad. Not a stretch.
This means Backstreet Boys are Counting Crows now. Donald Trump is president. Our life is REALITY TELEVISION™.
Nick was a darling 16 year old in 1996 and I’m sure he thought, “One day, if I wish hard enough, if I make enough people like me, I’ll get to learn the choreography to Backstreet’s Back and show everyone! Take that varsity football sports team!”
And here he was, learning that choreography, showing that varsity football sports team with an army of women in red spandex. It was strange. If this was Ben (last season), we’d have the predictable homophobic “I’m not much of a dancer” montage happening. Not with Nick. He was barely on camera. He was like “Bish, get away, I’m learning my steps. Film Corinne, she’s thirsty.”
The world’s saddest two hundred people attended what had to be a midday-in-the-San-Fernando-Valley taping of a fifteen minute Backstreet Boy concert held on the Burbank stage of a failed daytime talk show. Danielle L. gets the honor of an eighth grade dance with Nick who shows us why he seems to fail at the fantasy suite stage. “Come over tonight. I’m gonna waddle up on you, girl.” Aaaaand my wife just closed the browser again.
But f’real. Waddles™ later? ::crickets::
The only thing of note on the night date is that Ivanka made me vomit in my mouth when she came out in some creep trenchcoat with some producer-planted readi-whip and made Nick’s balls invert by forcing him to eat whipped cream off over her in between flashing him her nipple, which Nick wasn’t that excited by and neither was America.
She then gets drunk again, cries because the sight of her nipple doesn’t lead to on-camera fornication and then she passes out because CHEAP CHAMPS™.
Date two is with the French-Canadian Italian teacher who every time I think is gorgeous I remember she really looks like Nancy Travis in SO I MARRIED AN AXE MURDERER and then the feeling is gone.
This reference is as old as Nick and the Backstreet Boys.
Chris Harrison is really, really excited about this date. They spent a lot of money. His own money. That’s because they are going up on the plane that flies to near-space so gravity vanishes and you float around like you’re in outer space. Harrison is a huge fan of this because having tried every drug on earth, this is the only high left for him to experience before he one day launches himself into the center of the sun. I’m coming with you, Chris. We’re from the same town and we’ve never gotten blackout drunk off snake venom at the Four Seasons Westlake together. I think you are missing out. If I was the Bachelor, I wouldn’t invite the Backstreet Boys. You and I would buddy cop this shit together.
Anyway SIMAAM (So I Married An Axe Murderer, get used to it) and Nick go up in the vomit comet and then she vomits. This was less cool than when Kate Upton did this same thing on the exact same plane for Sports Illustrated for reasons I don’t care to explain.
Easily the farthest a pervy thought ever got taken. Someone suggested this as a wet-dream-slash-joke and America had the will and money and power to do it.
The most notable part of this date was after SIMAAM pukes, Nick kisses her and says it tastes great or something nuts like that. Also, pro tip: don’t crowd someone who is about to puke. Nick was like swirling around her as she was trying not to puke up her half-Luna bar breakfast. Don’t. Space. Give people space. Even in space.
I don’t remember the night part of the date. She gets a rose. And she’s someone to take seriously.
The other group date is track and field related because after you live our your fantasy to dance with the backstreet boys, you need to do some jock shit for continuity. And fair play to Nick, who did run track in college – which is not the same as football – and he knows this. Carl Lewis showed up. Loved you in the 88 Olympics man. Ben Johnson robbed you of the gold in 100m because he was roiding. Sorry, just felt like saying it. Just like Carl Lewis felt like wearing this in his music video.
Honestly, I blacked out for this date. I woke up at a pool party where Nick was dry humping Ivanka in a bounce castle and the girls where none too pleased.
If anything else happened, I wasn’t aware of it. There’s a point where you are just ready for them to trim the fat, get on a plane and reduce the entire history and culture of a foreign country into an outfit, an outdoor market, a plate of untouched food and a dumb local legend.