Happy Valentine’s Day. I hope you’re playing the so-titled track from Andre 3000’s side of the Outkast album. Actually, just play all of that. And play some Spottieottiedopalicious later to get in the mood. I know the song has some serious themes, but today I learned people have sex to some strange tunes.
Apparently in Australia, they listen to the song from the Cantina in Star Wars. Really.
This is a big week. We know Michael Flynn didn’t get the rose (unless Putin called Teleflora), but who else? With hometowns at stake, let’s BachCap.
This week was confusing because one of the best contestants was announced to be the next Bachelorette. I’m talking about Rachel. The lawyer. The role model. The person I’m not sure why she’s here.
I avoid spoilers for this show, but it was telling they just put this on blast. I couldn’t avoid it. It’s a triumph in three ways. First, she doesn’t have to attempt to marry Nick. Second, she is one of the smartest, most capable contestants ever to lead the show. Last and most importantly, she is the first black person to helm the show. She’s going to carry it. We’re going to watch. She’s going to be super fun.
But what does it say about Nick, how utterly boring this season is, how not into human women Nick acts if we are just going to announce one of the women getting hometowns is the next Bachelorette?
Chris Harrison switched off the hard drugs for this season because it’d be a bad trip. The only answer is hard liquor.
Nick left the room and hydrated from crying from all the shit going on INSIDE OF HIM™ because zero dramatic things are happening that we can see as audience members. On the surface, the water ripples, signaling deep distress below all the magical layers of this human onion. Nick. Be free.
He rolls back into the no-chill room of women strangling cheesy Caribean hotel pillows and then tells them that he feels like the “rug has been pulled out from under him” which is the biggest misuse of a turn-of-phrase since Ron Burgundy was trying to figure out when to say “when in Rome.”
Pulling the rug out from under yourself seems like an Aladdin-themed gif waiting to happen. It still doesn’t make sense. But let’s just agree Aladdin is pretty great. Sugar dates. Sugar dates and figs. Sugar dates and pistachios. My wife just closed the browser.
Nick explains why he sent Inner Side Boob and the other human home. It was cold because he basically just bashed them in his ten-year-old girl way. Like, “Our relationships are like, so-so-so much stronger and like who wanted these bitches at our sleepover anyway. We only have one bag of Twizzlers and you know how she gets when there’s candy involved.”
Nick, the sorority girl with a speech impediment, then is like, “Whaddya say we just get away from the big city in St. Thomas and go to Bimini where it’s like relaxed, like a more-mellowed-out-chill-kinda-vibe.” He talks like Rebecca Bunch on Crazy Ex-Girlfriend when she’s trying to not act crazy. Also, I love that show. Free plug.
Noticed that some of the girls were napping when Nick showed up. What’s wild about women is that they can nap next to someone even if they hate them. Like, I had a hard time on tour with my band sharing a bed with my best friends. Women can be like, “I hope you have a UTI and an overdraft charge for BofA at the same time, k, goodnight” and then just nap.
That’s so stone-cold killer. No wonder women are going to save the world. Nerves of steel. Love you, women!
And ladies, stop pretending you know what Bimini is. I mean, maybe Corinne does. Maybe she hooked up with someone on the Dolphins there or something. But like, you aren’t a thing Bimini. You sound like something that goes great with hummus or a country Trump is going to ban next because he is a racist who doesn’t like hummus.
Bimini is a little island near Miami that looks like a a man hiding from the cops inside an avocado.
You don’t see it?
Drawing this was more fun than I’ve had at any point during this season.
Bimini is famous for smuggling booze during prohibition. We didn’t cover any of that. We just did dumb ass shit the whole time. Ponce De Leon looked for the fountain of youth here. We didn’t cover any of that. Nick was all, “who cares, Kiehls and Aesop are my fountain of youth.”
I make such a mean girl face when I type things I picture Nick saying. You just have to picture me at my desk scrunching my face being like Nick said, “whatever, I Bimini to tell you girls that none of you win.”
So I Married An Axe Murderer gets the first date and they go snorkeling in Nick’s itsy-bitsy bathing suit. He isn’t into her, the ocean, being on TV or the cool Spanish galleon wreckage covered in graffiti.
She tells him she is falling in love with him after telling him it’s a day of firsts (all yacht related). He shuts that down like a web browser full of porn when your mom gets home. Hi Mom! My wife just closed the browser. Not for porn though. God. Sorry, wife.
The next date is the group date with Hoxie, Putin on the Ritz and Ivanka. They are going to see some sharks. Nick is like, “Guys, this will be a redonkulous story when we get back because so many people claim to like swim with sharks but they like went to SeaWorld and just want to sound impressive, who does that?”
Hoxie said she’s punch the shark in the nose if it messed with her and for sure I believe her after her describing seeing her fiancee having sex. I actually really like her, but there’s like a high likelihood you can’t say stuff like “Jesus effing Christ” in front of her, even if you for real cut your finger off or something where you didn’t even mean it, it slipped out. Like, all day you’re trying not to take the lord’s name in vain because you’re agnostic and she’s really fun and cute and punches sharks, but you spill a bowl of ciopinno on your penis and all your can think of screaming is something about Jesus. Does that end the relationship? Does one still get the rose on that date? Asking for a friend who loves ciopinno and has bad hand-eye coordination.
Hoxie gets the rose and they go to a concert by some band my wife described as “the Caribbean Train” which is better than anything I could have come up with by a mile. They have for sure covered Drops of Jupiter, right? All reggae style though.
Corrinne, for all her flaws, is kind of the GOAT. She’s the only person I have EVER seen consistently eat on the show. She talks comfortably about her body. She doesn’t deny being horrible. She goes for what she wants. In this day and age, she’s the least of our problems. I’m confident when she heard the president may have paid Russian prostitutes to piss on him – she was like, “grow up, whatever, everyone does stuff when they are rich.”
By the same morbid token, when Putin on the Ritz said she ate lipstick as a starving young girl, Corrinne FOR SURE pulled out her wet-mess make up bag and was like, “If you’re hungry, I have a bunch of last season’s MAC colors you can snack on.”
Oh Jesus, I am going to hell. Sorry Hoxie.
Nick takes Neonatal Narcoleptic Nurse on a date (for real, she’s asleep the whole time). They do the old Bachelor standby “indigenous sport date” and play basketball with the local youth. She tells him the truth about being afraid to fall in love because the last guy died, which makes sense. Nick responds by crying (because his diet is crying to lose water weight) and then sends her home.
Corrinne, sensing an opportunity, tries to go have sex with Nick who stops her being all, “I just showered and don’t want to get ready for bed again.”
Rachel’s date omitted because she clearly doesn’t win this show, she is the next Bachelorette and I am letting her be. Love you, girl. You go Glen Coco.
Finally, Nick gets rid of Putin on the Ritz, making him better at vetting Russians than our current administration. It sucks because she is lovely. I hope all this TV exposure hooks her up with the kind of man who likes amazing women who are smart, strong and pretty and have actual jobs. Keep being those girls, America. Or Corrinnes. At least she’s honest.
ON TO THE HOMETOWNS.