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BachCap V: The Saddest Kind of Volleyball

Sorry about last week. I was in Baltimore for work. Shout out to [protecting your name] at Woodberry Kitchen for recognizing me from this blog. I was never so upset my wife wasn’t with me because the street cred at home would have been tremendous. Thanks to the bartender as well. I remember at least ten minutes of being there.

What say we just dive in? What say we do.

This is not the most dramatic season of the Bachelor ever. In fact, it’s just the saddest. I am not even sure what’s going on. Nick honestly only seems happy wearing skimpy hot pants bathing suits and doing baby t-rex dances. Put him in front of a nice girl with weapons grade cleavage, it’s just mehhhhhhhh.

Not even drama. More like the friend who comes over and silently sits on your couch and at first you’re worried about them until you get a drink in you and stop caring all together. Only at least with this friend, eventually the existential dread kicks in and they tell you how they feel.

Still waiting on what’s up Nick. We can handle the truth. But please. Pick this up. Soon. I can’t keep living in a world where Betsy DeVos is in charge of our education system. I need good news. Under Betsy DeVos, our children will regress to the point that rose ceremonies in the future will simply be a pile of roses dropped into a pit filled with cheap prosecco and whoever gets a rose / lives gets to move on to next week – which is a trip to glamourous Topeka, Kansas, which Betsy DeVos considers the Caribbean because #alternativefacts.

We open in New Orleans, one of my favorite cities on the whole planet and somehow Nick ruined it. He found no joy in a city where I usually stay in firehouse curated by two fabulous gay men (for real, rent it). A city where you can listen to jazz and party with total strangers. A city where you can buy shots to go and bring your alcohol literally anywhere you feel like it. A city where you can’t tell if the marching band is for a funeral or a wedding and it doesn’t matter.

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Side note. Bachelor weddings are funerals, right? Like – a guarantee your heart is murdered.

Look, in NOLA I once saw a man passed out getting pissed on by another dude (Trump) and a guy was taking a picture of the whole thing and then another guy was taking a picture of the guy taking a picture. It was so meta. It was so messed up. It was two feet off a main thoroughfare.

HOW DID NICK MAKE NEW ORLEANS SAD?

Corinne returns from her bayou battle. If the Patriots, Trump, the world haven’t taught you anything yet, let me help. She could win this. She could win the whole damn thing.
Taylor, the therapist you will never trust after this, commits the cardinal sin which is trying to tell the Bachelor someone is bad. It’s mutually assured destruction, much like our foreign policy with Russia right now. This is fine.

Corinne downs a bottle of champs. Probably grabs her boobs. I don’t know. I block her out like screaming kids on long flights. It’s best to just let it sort itself out.

The cocktail party is mainly notable because the cheerleader starts to go insane. Every year someone just created a pernicious loop in their head and their mind slowly eats them alive. I knew she was dead before Nick told them they were off to beautiful St. Thomas, which he thought was a nightclub in WeHo until this episode.

But hey, what better place to fall in love than in St. Thomas.

The girls pretend the sprawling 90s looking suite they are in is super nice and congregate on the balcony to watch Nick soar by in his…

SEAPLANE?

Oh eff you Elan! I know you got love for me but our first flying magic love-inducing aircraft is a sea plane? If a helicopter is a labradoodle, a sea plane is like one of those cats with no hair. Like, it’s cool. It’s better than a frog. But we came for the doodles. Doodle us, Elan. Doodle us, Adam Mansfield. Doodle us, producers.

To be clear, getting doodled now means seeing a helicopter on a reality dating show. My wife just closed the browser.

First date is with Kristina who I am calling Putin On The Ritz, because she’s Russian. Or Second Lady. Because Trump will eventually release Melania (#freemelania) and he’ll need a new immigrant to love (while hating the other ones). Maybe Kristina. Please no.

Putin On The Ritz has a beautiful smile, a sad past and a great attitude. I hope she gets cut so quick because she deserves better. I have a hard time believing a dental hygienist so lovely can’t meet people. Is it maybe because she has to wear a medical mask and visor when she cleans teeth? Do people not know?

Anyway, Nick seems totally incapable of not smiling awkwardly at a story one wouldn’t smile too. I was sitting there listening to this really great person saying that she had to literally EAT LIPSTICK™ because they had no food. Also, is this the best new morbid way to tell someone to eff off? GO EAT LIPSTICK™.

Too far. Even for me. Two gold stars from my wife for knowing my limits. She gets the rose. Obviously. I’ll adopt her if she just leaves the show right now.

The group date is mainly about bad volleyball and the tightest bathing suit I’ve ever seen. Sure, Don Draper wore those back in the day. But now, these are reserved for my most in shape gay buddies who invite you to grab a drink and a swim at the rooftop pool at the SoHo House in the meatpacking district and then you get there and feel fat and find that you’ve somehow been emasculated by short shorts, which is even more emasculating until your gay buddies assure you that, yes, you are pretty too Zack. In your own way.

My wife just closed the browser. But she knows I’m pretty. She likes me for me.

Jasmine is just self-destructing and it kind of sucks because I am rooting for a human of color to make a top three for once and she’s a damn cheerleader for the most popular basketball team on earth. If this can’t work, I’m scared. She’s just confused Nick isn’t acting thirsty with her. He’s not acting thirsty with anyone. Chill.

This date is miserable. Jasmine ends up getting sent home because she tries to turn Nick on by choking him, offering to choke him, asking if he likes getting choked. Basically, she choked. Like Steph Curry did in game seven. Because she cheerleads for them. I’m sorry SF readers. You have to know we’re not same page here. Go Dodgers. Even Year is not a thing. XOXOXOXOX.

I guess Raven got the rose? Circle gets the square? I get to move on.

The 2-on-Juan is between Inner Side Boob and Whitney, who apparently is a person who exists and is still on this show. Hi. Nice to meet you…

IN A HELICOPTER! FOR A MOMENT THE CLOUDS PART! THE SUN ON MY BACK! MY HEART SWELLS! EMOTIONS SOAR ON HIGH! THERE IS A GOD! WE ALL LIVE IN CANADA! REFUGEES ARE WELCOMED WITH OPEN ARMS! THE INTERNET IS ALL CATS, PUPPIES AND BABIES AGAIN!

Sweet, merciful helicopter. I don’t care what happens. My soul is full.

Whitney is not real and gets sent home. She’s left on some island and we get some more rockin’ HELICOPTER ACTION™.

The night date with Inner Side Boob is mad awkward. She’s falling for Nick, who is wearing a sweater with a HUGE NECK. This is a Matrix sweater. Are you in Zion, Nick? Are you going to a dance party in Zion with Neo? Is there a motivational speech by Morpheus? Is that sweater from the Matrix? Did you find it with Trinity on the Nebuchadnezzar? Did you wear it when they downloaded Kung Fu into your brain? Did you wear it when you jumped between two skyscrapers?

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Get it? It’s a Matrix sweater.

Anyway. She loves him. He sends her home and then starts crying because he’s not sure he can find love and then he goes back to the house and starts crying and freaks all the girls out and they start crying. It was like the puking and ‘rea scene from Bridesmaids. Everyone just making each other do stuff.

So we started on a low note. Ended on one. Two sea planes. One life-giving helicopter.

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This Is A Post About Guacamole and California Secessionism.

In what is probably going to be a long term thing I do between Bachelor and USC blogs, I want to talk about something that is neither. Today, that’s guacamole. Well, avocados.

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Whatever your views on “The Wall” are, and I mean the wall between America and Mexico that President Trump is proposing, it’s clear goods from Mexico are going to be more expensive. Look, if they won’t pay for a wall directly (which, regardless of your political views, they won’t because people don’t pay for other people’s things, this isn’t Kickstarter), they will get the money from taxing Mexican goods. Taxing them on shipping them in, taxing us for buying them. Even if you love the wall, realize we’re paying for it one way or another. Likely in the form of avocados.

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Here’s what I’m saying.

This USA Today article cites that:

As recently as 2014, Mexico accounted for 60% of the avocados in the U.S., Avocados From Mexico, a trade and promotion association, reports.

The article goes on to say:

The Haas Avocado Board, which tracks shipments of one most popular varieties, expects to see imports of 400.9 million pounds of Mexican avocados this year, compared to 24.9 million from California, one of the largest producing states.

Without needing to do much math at all, it’s clear that if we increase the price of avocados from Mexico, a food need I remind you is the main ingredient in guacamole, which is so delicious that it’s plausible even your typical racist still likes it, avocado prices will soar.

This puts California, our leading producer of avocados in the GOOD OLE USA, in an incredible position of power. Even the most conservative American recognizes supply and demand’s value to free market capitalism. Many liberals in California are talking about wanting to leave the union. But as an American, I want to stay an American. I have a polite suggestion for California, controller of avocados that don’t need a visa to work here in tacos, guacamole and on multigrain toast for a sensible way to get fiber and protein at breakfast.

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Instead of whining about leaving the union, California should just raise the price of avocados exported outside of the state. Look, our cabinet of Goldman Sachs economists would laud, cheer and appreciate the move. Nothing is more capitalist than capitalizing on a big short. California can short the avocado industry. They can treat it like oil and use the money to do whatever it wants. Fix LAUSD. Re-sign Clayton Kershaw for 200 years. Buy back the land UCLA is on and make a second USC. I don’t really care.

As a displaced Californian who roots for California, this isn’t political for me. I just see a real opportunity to non-violently exploit America’s love of a Mexican product in the way people love drugs and hate drug dealers. California, you could get rich. I see no reason post-wall that avocados couldn’t cost 20 dollars each. The fun part is, since so much of our produce comes from behind the wall, salsa will be more expensive too, and frankly if you are paying 10 dollars for salsa, you go for the up-sell to avocado. Anyone who has been to Islands knows you always accept an invitation to up-sell avocados.

The free market goes both ways and I think this is a wonderful opportunity to make some money supporting American farmers. California is a wealthy state. It’s time the rich get richer. Like rich, creamy guacamole on Super Bowl Sunday.

Raise the price of California Avocados right now. I just fixed the drought, betches. We can buy Evian for everyone with this extra money.

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This Is Not A Political Post. This Is A Post About Gum Abuse.

I know you guys think this is a political post. It’s not. I will talk no politics in this entire post. I’m just going to talk about one person and their mental health.

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This is about the fact Sean Spicer admits to chewing and swallowing 35 pieces of gum before noon every day. Let’s ignore his political affiliation. Let’s ignore anything that has anything to do with politics, because this is not a political blog. I usually just make fun of things. Or point out crazy things.

Guys. It’s not fake news. It’s his quote, not taken out of context in this Washington Post article.

Even when he is not speaking, it works on overdrive, churning through pieces of Orbit cinnamon gum, which he chews and swallows whole. Notwithstanding his line of work, the man just can’t stand a gross-feeling mouth.

“Two and a half packs by noon,” said Spicer. “I talked to my doctor about it, he said it’s no problem.”

Ignore any perceived liberal bias in the article. Don’t even read it. It’s irrelevant to the fact he is talking about eating whole 35 pieces of Cinnamon gum before morning. The article could be in Mother Jones and be titled, “Evil Devil Man Eats and Swallows 35 Pieces of Gum Before Noon” or it could be on Breitbart and be titled “American Servant and Hero Eats and Swallows 35 Pieces of Gum Before Noon” and my reaction is the same.

Holy shit.

Extrapolate that.

I don’t think even hearing it and going, “yeah, that’s bonkers” even comes close to making sure you get what we’re talking about. This is Anthony Wiener pathologically showing people his penis weird. This is bath-salts-face-eating strange.

Let’s really talk about it. Again, no politics. This is weird for a human and I need to talk about it.

Mr. Spicer has a high stress job. He has to explain what’s happening in the White House to a very divided country against a very inquisitive press. I say that to assume this is a man who wakes up early in the morning to be ready for the day. Let’s say he wakes up at 5am every morning. He is quoted as eating “two and a half packs” before noon. So 35 pieces of his favorite gum. Which is cinnamon, by the way. Even a gingerbread man can’t hang with that much cinnamon.

He’s opening, chewing and swallowing a piece of gum every 8.5 minutes. If I was wrong and he wakes at 6am, this falls to every 6.8 minutes. If I was challenged to eat a piece of gum every 8.5 minutes, I’d last 8.5 minutes. This seems like a very specific, strange eating disorder. He’s clearly worried about it enough that he’s asked his doctor.

I’m just so confused. If you went on a date and your date ate like 10 pieces of gum during dinner, would you trust that person? Would you worry for your safety? Would you want to get them help?

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In Men In Black, a giant bug alien skins a human farmer, puts on his skin (played brilliantly by Vincent D’Onofrio) and stumbles around the house interacting with his dimwitted wife. His odd appearance, his herky-jerky walk, nothing makes her too suspicious of him.

Until he asks he to pour an entire bag of sugar into a glass of water. Then, she’s suspicious. Because as humans, there’s just some things we don’t do. Sure, we CAN drink a glass of sugar water. We CAN eat a pack and a half of gum by noon every day. But who do you know who actually does it?

Just like I have a hard time trusting a man showing his penis to people all the time (Mr. Wiener), I have a hard time trusting a chronic gum eater.

It is not fact that gum stays in your system for 7 years. Not even 7 days, usually. I checked with Yale’s Scientific Journal, who I trust because lots of presidents from both parties and scientists of all beliefs have gone there. Dr Milov quoted in the journal had this to say:

“Gum is pretty immune to the digestive process. It probably passes through slower than most foodstuffs, but eventually the normal housekeeping waves in the digestive tract will sort of push it through, and it will come out pretty unmolested.”

I want you to picture the size of 35 pieces of chewed bubble gum. I want you to picture Mr. Spicer having to pass that amount of undigested gum in his stool every day. I dare you to watch a White House presser without thinking about the fact his body pushing a fistful of undigested gum through his colon. Actually, seven days worth.

It’s an honest concern with no political motive. There are probably many, many people willing to take on a high stress position from President Trump who do not eat an egg-sized amount of gum before lunch every day.

Just something to consider. Or if you are friends with him, get him some help.

Excuse me while I chug a gallon of prune juice.

 

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BachCap III: What Does It All Mean?

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.

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Let’s BachCap.

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:

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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.

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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.”

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Anyhoo.

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™.

Who cares.

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.

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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.

Swimsuit 2014: Zero Gravity Kate Upton Cape Canaveral, Florida, USA 5/18/2013 X156517 TK1 Credit: James Macari

 

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.

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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.

SOON.

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BachCap II: Tops Optional

Oh, hi. For those of you coming for the USC End of Sanctions post, click here. For those of you here for the right reasons, let’s BachCap:

Chris Harrison stared into the mirror. His face implant looked great. Better than great, better than he expected. When a Cuban surgeon suggested over Cohibas and Guatemalan rum that he could have a more youthful version of his current face 3D printed on baby calfskin and grafted onto skull, he could hardly believe it. Still, he took the  man’s number in his 24K gold iPhone case designed by his personal slave Neil Lane and often debated using his untraceable server to call the surgeon. He figured maybe he should get it done now before Trump rescinded passage to Cuba and his chance for a new face was gone.

Looking in the mirror this morning, the results spoke for themselves. Already handsome before, no one would even know he’d undergone a procedure. But he did. Confidence came from within, and also from his standard week two breakfast, a modification of Hunter S. Thompson’s menu del día: Half a cantaloupe drizzled with rum, chicory coffee flown in from New Orleans and served black, a rasher of Kobe bacon (hard for even him to get as it comes from pigs owned by Kobe Bryant) and one double-wide line of cocaine.

Elan Gale came to tell him it was time to start week two. For a moment, the familiar nerves returned, but that might have been the blow. Or the coffee. He knew what America knew. Anything he said to these “women” would be received much the same way a merle-colored labradoodle would be received by a middle-school sleepover. Reactions of shock, glee, surprise and delight and the total lack of impulse control followed anything he said. At the bottom of the bottle, he often fantasized about writing on a date card, “Tonight, one of you dies, one of you gets extra time with Nick.” He already knew they would do this.

“Chris.”

“Huh?”

“Chris, it’s time.”

“Right, Elan. It is. What exact time is it?”

“6am.”

“How long have they been drinking?”

“They haven’t stopped.”

“Right. Perfect. Thanks.”

“And sir?”

“Yes, Elan?”

“Your face. It’s beautiful.”

“We said we’d never speak of it. [long pause] But, thank you.”

The first tear Chris Harrison was able to produce with his new face rolled down his cheek and he bottled it. He locked it in a safe in his house and told no one.

But I know about it. If there was a movie about my own life, and there should be, it would be like Indiana Jones and I would go on a quest for that one, bottled tear. It cures cancers, but it also produces the most intense chemical high possible. What would I choose? The fate of the world or to truly understand the feeling of being Chris Harrison, my lifelong hero, a man who stands on the winner’s podium of my influences along with Prefontaine, Rick Steves, Gordon Ramsey (pre-2008) and Corey Seager.

Oh, shit. You wanted me to talk about the parts of the show they filmed. Fine. MY WIFE CLOSED THE BROWSER FIVE MINUTES AGO BUT NOW SHE’S DELETING MY NETFLIX ACCOUNT INEXPLICABLY.

Chris Harrison tells the women that it’s time to get down to business and maybe it was the dragon blood talking, but he said that it’s “physically impossible” for Nick to get dates with everyone. But I think he just meant logistically. Or maybe it was because they could physically only fit so many people into the awful Tom’s Natural Toothpaste colored Buick Whatever-The-Fucks some media exec sold through.

They looked like three Tic Tacs rolling through Kanan Canyon. Those cars were an ad for a midlife crisis. They made me want to buy a Porsche RIGHT NOW™.

These minty suppositories were heading for the Getty Villa and Franco Lacosta, who is my personal spirit animal. One part partyboy™, one part West Hollywood safari guide, one part fernet branca and two parts 70s cop, this man is a national treasure. Literally, he’s Puerto Rican so we get to count him! Also, he’s got less instagram followers than I do. Fix it, America. Tell ’em the Bearfighter sent you.

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Nick talks like he is secretly hiding a tongue ring from his family. I dub thee – SECRET TONGUE RINGER™. Secret-T is way too stoked for this photo shoot. He’s wearing a metallic tux with no buttons. He’s not looking at the naked women, instead mugging for the camera like a toddler who knows they’re cute.

It’s weird. He’s the bachelor, but he doesn’t feel like he’s in the show at all. He was a great villain. He’s just sort of a meat-filled humanoid going through the motions on this show. I kind of want him to let the cat out. Show those claws, Nick!

Dolphin Shark is made to dress like “shotgun bride” – which just means pregnant. Having the girl from New Jersey do this is racist against New Jerseyans if being New Jerseyan was a race. (editor’s note, I lived there until 3rd grade and that explains a lot). She’s up there with my favorites, especially when she celebrated her boobs’ birthday with two flesh-colored cupcakes.

Ivanka managed to get drunk by 7am and go full a-hole on everyone. The Girl With The Heart Tattoo who is Two Inches From Crazy thinks Ivanka would be a bad person to bring home to parents. But like, you put the most generic tattoo in the least generic place. I want to know how it happened and why. What’s the statement? You’re pro-love? You wear your heart on your heart? I’m fucking lost.

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What else, oh. Brittany makes a whole big deal about how small the bikini bottoms she’s been given are and then comes out looking aces. I’m guessing central casting had clocked that ass from before she got there. Good for her because it pisses off Ivanka, causes her to drink more and then awkwardly go topless in the pool while Nick keeps going “ewwwww” although in this case I agree.

Ivanka at one point at night is bragging about how no other man will ever hold her boobs – her nanny is a woman so her adjusting her bra for her in the morning doesn’t count. She says something like, “He’s the first, first, first person I’m falling, falling, falling, falling in love, love, love.” Holy shit. Shut shut shut shut up up up up now now now.

She gets so drunk while stealing Nick (can Nick be stolen?) she says, “I think the world to him.” I am sure I know the two things her brain is trying to say.

Look, more and more I’m convinced the “multi-million dollar business” she runs for her Dad is just like, The Sims or something. Like, her Dad put The Sims on and was like, “keep them alive and we make millions” and that’s what she does all day, staring at the ocean and forcing a nice lady to cut cucumbers for her.

Someone else mentioned “getting naked is the most romantic thing ever.” I dunno. My last physical wasn’t romantic.

Ivanka gets the rose, mainly because of the success of crime dramas at the Golden Globes and they want a murder at the mansion. Speaking of mansion, this cool thing from Trulia let’s you tour the mansion in my hometown. I was not paid to say this. I just like it. Also, probably a solid investment for an IVF clinic. Plenty of specimens in that pool alone.

Oh yeah. Taylor, who is NO WAY A PSYCHOLOGIST™, tells Nick she loves how he does this thing where he has a thought and goes with it. Jesus. You’re describing being alive.

Danielle had a date with Nick and the only thing I remember was the relief on Nick’s face when she told him her ex died of an overdose and thinking man, he just wants to be on TV and got relieved he could just be nice and talk instead of trying to figure out how to turn on all of America at once and be everything his family and the producers expect all while selling software and working out and waxing and holy-shit-I-need-a-psychologist-that-isn’t-Taylor.

The last date is mainly about Crazy Ex Girlfriend (great show) and her giant-ass back tattoo planting the fact she slept with Nick to Christen, who is a Powder Puff Girl that de-animated and grew up. The time bomb is set. They go to the museum of breakups which apparently is a thing and we’re meant to believe Neil Lane left a five-figure ring there for art. Nice try. Also, Nick, no one cares or remembers.

They do a bunch of fake break ups, whatever whatever. Eventually, Crazy Ex Girlfriend just alludes to the whole thing in her scripted breakup and then Nick dumps her like third period French. Which is fine because she was probably going to peel his skin off eventually and make one of those ugly doctor evil cats out of it. Like it doll form.

Shit, I’m talking about skin peeling a lot today. My wife just closed the browser.

And I’m spent. See you next week.

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7 Bdr Victorian in Historic NW Portland Alphabet District

This actual housing listing in Portland, America’s hottest real estate market, was brought to my attention. I felt the need to rewrite the listing based on the photos provided. A link to the actual listing is at the foot of the post. 

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FOR SALE!

Rare, spacious Victorian in the Alphabet District in close-in NW Portland. This 7 bed, 2 bath classic oozes with potential for the discerning home buyer. It’s what we call a true fixer’s dream! While the house boasts three stories, it’s clearly had thousands of stories. Picture your family adding to this tapestry of life just a stone’s throw from the bustle and glamour of the Pearl District.

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The grand living room is laid out shotgun-style to a second drawing room. Pictured here configured as a young-man-about-town’s paradise boasting an indoor garage band setup with original stained glass windows providing a natural light show that will have you and your guests feeling like they are taking in a show at the Crystal Ballroom. Original wood floors bounce just as much as that famous night club. The dust on the floor tells you the room inspired the kind of musicians that are currently on tour.

The room features dual viewing stations for quiet, rainy Portland days where you just want to stay inside and watch the big game while also watching pornography in a private setting with original sliding doors.

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The reverse view reveals a Scottish tartan-inspired couch guaranteed to remind you of your fraternity days. A non-functional fireplace (shown here functioning via Photoshop) will warm you and your loved ones. The renaissance pagan worship alter housing it is built-in and adds mystical charm.

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Step through into the drawing room illuminated by giant bay windows and relax in the included chaise-lounge-slash-lazy boy that’s survived two small fires leaving it with a rustic, northwest campfire smell that will transport you to glamping at Crater Lake or shopping for Danner Boots at nearby Union Way. The Persian rug hides wonderful stories – come view the property to peek under and into the past (NDAs required).

The window coverings serve a dual purpose, providing a soft gauzy light and partially hiding the vintage 1993 Panasonic 6 CD changer component stereo (speakers not pictured).

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A true meth chef’s kitchen features a freestanding, hoodless four burner cooktop stove and non-matching kegerator with an extra keg provided. A cozy five seater breakfast table (with cantaloupe) rests adjacent to an oversized window complete with 50% of the original plantation shutters. Get the best of both worlds!

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The wainscoting lining the rich terror-wood staircase bears rustic, original nail scrapings and charming dings from several lifetimes of forced detentions, terrified animals and demons clawing their way upstairs. Every day is Halloween!

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Emily Rose was exorcised in the Lavender Room. Her original christening gown has been lovingly framed as part of what many feel will be a future historical site in Portland. Tuck your children in nightly with the peace of mind that Satan has already been forcibly removed from this full-size bedroom. As a parent, it’s wonderful to have one less thing to worry about.

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The hallway was crafted in the sexually-repressed all male boarding school style complete with a love seat reclaimed from the Clackamas County office of top Ear, Nose and Throat doctor Larry Eichleman. Feel free to enjoy indoor bonfires and seances. Fire extinguisher included (and unable to be removed without damaging the drywall).

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The house also contains a multi-purpose room. Previous tenants used it as an art gallery and taxidermy studio. The head of a stag and half of a pouncing black bear are included. The artwork of a violin playing girl (who now haunts the house) are negotiable with purchase, unlike the ghost herself, who has 273 mortal years left on her haunting lease.

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Original hardware in every door! No need to ask Chown Pella to recreate these beauties! The brasswork improves grip, essential when fleeing from ghosts and vagrants living in undiscovered crawlspaces in this 1800s charmer.

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The bathroom contains a full-size bath and sinkless design evoking a simpler time when the bath was more than just a relaxing retreat from the stress of the day. Tankless water heater? No way. Who needs one when you have a space heater included at the base of the tub, perfect for accurate, gentle temperature control of the people waking up in this tub without organs. Ingenuity reigns supreme with a shower caddy hung in the absence of a shower. Shave or stare at yourself and question your life decisions in the mini mirror hung directly above the space heater.

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A private backyard complete with abandoned bathtub gives you a respite from this nightmare of a home. The bathtub can also double as a rain catcher so you can “live green” like most PDXers do and save money on bottled water. Make your own!

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A half size garage is included for storing your horse drawn carriage. Just don’t ask what’s under the leaves. Seriously, because the realtor has refused to enter the property. There will be no one to ask.

Asking price $974,900 (not kidding).

 

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Closed for Two Games

Hey folks.

I’m taking some quality PTO which you may follow on Instagram. In the meantime, you’ll have to suffer two weeks without trash talking. In fairness, if there’s any suffering to be had, it’ll be defensively.

FTFO and hope on my travels I get the requisite wifi to enjoy the games.

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I’m Posting On Wednesday

Sorry folks, I have to watch on Tuesday, so I’ll put a cap on this Wednesday. Until then, stare at this:

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BachCap 3: The Date Show With Jimmy Kimmel

You need to take this show with a grain of bath salts. I am typically against any deviations from the formula. Give me a helicopter. Give me some drunken rose ceremonies. Give me a couple sneak attacks with Chris Harrison popping out of a bush with a champagne flute and a knife clinking and for the most part, I’m a HAPPY CAMPER™.

So when the episode starts with Jimmy Kimmel sneaking into a very staged wake up scene (or they just film Chris sleeping all the time, que lastima), I get skeptical that we’re adding a designated hitter to my game. I like my sports traditional and this was a very scripted departure SANS MUPPETS ™ so it was pretty much NOT OKAY™.

I’m not Jimmy Kimmel fan. I reluctantly laugh at his promos. I appreciated when he was chubby on Win Ben Stein’s Money (we all had a 90s, Jimmy but mine was high school). I get that he’s had more plastic surgery in his face than most of these women have had in their NOT FACE™. Seriously, he is one nip/tuck from being on Real Housewives of Late Night Television.

But the thing is, he shined here and I didn’t expect it. I mean I know he’s the 5th best late night host on television, but being 100% honest, he won me back. I am for Kimmel. He went on there and did a very polished version of what I’d do. He talked about everything. He called them out for saying “the right reasons” and called them “sister wives.” Even better, he started a tip jar for when they said amazing. He allowed the show to go to a self-reflexive place and in doing so, took a great season and it HYPERGREAT™.

Chris Harrison looked very annoyed to be sharing the spotlight. It really brought into question what he does on the show (besides hardcore narcotics to be able to look in the mirror). You could tell having a real improve talent in the room was frusterating for him. He even left his tie at home in the beginning, opting to go for the “new-divorced at a cougar bar” BLAZER x V-NECK collab. Chris, you’re better than that. Just because Jimmy got some laughs when he said he’d be taking sexual test drives with all the girls in front of you doesn’t mean you need to get all Scarface hang a man from a helicopter on him:

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As you can imagine, this is my favorite drug related murder in any drug film. I mean, besides the fact a helicopter is used to murder a rat… The helicopter is the damn star. I could go on for days. Watch Scarface. Just do it.

First date is with the Breakdancing Hoser (she’s Canadian). Jimmy makes it seem like they’re going somewhere pretty swanky, bottles, basically all the lyrics to Like A G6, only instead they go to Costco. They have a ridiculous shopping list and have to buy all the stuff.

Many times on this date, there were lines about this being “normal” – doing the things a real couple would do like Costco or BBQing. The thing is, nothing about this Costco trip was like one my wife and I might go on. For one, when we go to Costco, we buy nothing but paper towels and toilet paper. When we go to the checkout counter, which is as chaotically crowded as most religious tourist spots in Israel, the cashier looks at our bricks and bricks of toilet paper and wonders if all we do is eat beans and drink hard alcohol. I mean, no one should need to wipe their ass as much as it seems like we’re going to. Teens talk about the embarrassment of buying condoms at the drugstore. Are you kidding? I was dancing up and down the aisles when I bought them, I looked really cool (and responsible).

There is no shame like seeing your next 2,000 stomach aches depicted in the form of palettes of TP. You go to check out and you feel like the cashier is sizing up how your ass contributes to this:

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The other thing that was a real departure was when they got in the awesome blow up hamster ball and rolled down an aisle. How many companies of militia were needed to clear out the hordes of old folks looking for samples of protein bars and microwave pizza for them to inflate a giant ball and roll it down an aisle. I literally feel like I’m trying to cross the 101 on foot when I walk around there.

Also, how scarred are those kids that pushed them. I’d have been so tempted to be like HEY KIDS THIS IS HOW BABIES ARE MADE. I really should have gone on this show.

Later they go back to barbecue and Kimmel is there being pretty awesome. He asks about the fantasy suites and being Canadian, the Hoser pretty much says it’s cool he can take some people on a test drive. I respected her for understanding the game. Not for being okay with it. Either way, she was quickly flying up my list for that reason and the fact she can get away with that kind of midriff. O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

We definitely realize here that Chris laughs like a sorority girl being tickled by a boy she likes. Forget Time Is A Fat Circle. He’s now called Gigglepuss. BELIEVE IT™.

When they get in the hot tub (before Kimmel shows up to eat ribs), they start making out and the truth about Canada comes out. She is not an aggressive kisser. She talks a big game, but she is definitely not a face-sucking awkward mess. This seems to substantiate that she’s been the BEST FRIEND™ a lot and cleaned up on a lot of TRANSITIONAL TRYSTS™. What I mean is, she’s adjacent to a lot of her friends’ relationships and they confide in her and when they break up, she gets a quick TRANSITIONAL TRYST™, but then he finds another HOT TICKET™ and moves on. She’s a Katherine Heigl film, back when they made those.

I like her strategy and I bet, despite her devil-may-care attitude, that she’s a catch. She’s trying too hard to prove she’s not great. I like her.

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The group date is great, save one big time issue: MESA VERDE is there and we get nothing, barely even a creepy stare from her. She even did her hair and didn’t crawl on the ground chasing cats. She had so many opportunities to terrorize animals, I felt let down.

Anyway, this date is American Ninja x Farmville. Much like hot tubs and helicopters, girls milking animals is becoming a motif on this show and you didn’t need to go to the best film school on earth (I did, NON-HUMBLEBRAG™) to catch what that is about. And if you didn’t, Kimmel mentioned there was one boy goat they had to milk. HJs. We’re talking about HJs. Also someone said something about “warm and salty” and “in my mouth” and at that point I was wondering how many US dollars it took the producer to just force that sound bite. Whatever, grateful. #blessed

In this race to shovel shit, crack eggs, milk a goat and chug and to shuck corn, the real news was not Carly going balls out to win. The real news was that Jillian finally earned her lasting nickname. I dub her FLIGHT RECORDER, you know, because of the Black Box they had to put over her butt the entire time. Presumably because she wears TOO-SMALL™ sizes, but after BUTT PEACH FUZZ™ talk from last week, basically who knows what’s going on there. But a producer doesn’t like her she lives with a superimposed black miniskirt the entire show.

It was epic when she leaped over the fence. For every reason from Plato to Voltaire. It was the Sistine Chapel of black box leaps into pig pens. Venus di Milo and Otis.

Carly wins, she gets a blue ribbon and an American Gothic photo shoot with Gigglepuss. I know all of us at home felt we missed out.

The cocktail party is another makeout fest, which makes sense as Gigglepuss only has access to women he’s related to in Iowa. He’s making up for lost time and laughing like a girl. He also only holds a woman’s hands directly over their crotch. Real talk.

MOTHER OF KALE has a mild aneurysm and blacks out. She basically asks Gigglepuss why he makes out with other girls, but asks as if she just noticed this. What does she do all night at these cocktail parties? Does she just look at salads and debate which vegetable she’ll name her next kid after? Spinach and Artichoke Dip is my vote. My guess is where she’s from, that’s considered a vegetable.

Becca gets a rose and now I need to figure out who the hell she is. THANKS.

Second date is with the fertility nurse who talks like a baby. Fertility. Kids movies. Fern Gully. I dub thee FERT GULLY. They go to Saddlerock in Malibu, mere miles from where I went to high school. Fairly sure my cousin was married there. This is a nice spot and there’s a mountain that looks like a cat which brought me tons of joys every time I drop DURING CLASS AFTER SCHOOL to the beach.

She decides that we’re going to crash a wedding and despite how much we are meant to think this is spontaneous, it is not. I do appreciate them shooting the wedding all shady from bushes, even if everyone knew.

I don’t know if Gigglepuss is just someone who falls in love at weddings or when drunk, both which are LOVE HEROIN™, but he seemed like he dug FERT GULLY, especially when he dropped the uber subtle clue about “seeing himself marrying her.” So there’s that. Garden State. The Shins.

Instead of a cocktail party, we opted for an all day pool party. Of course, this is useful for two reasons. The first is obvious. Day drinking in the hot sun makes for a drunker rose ceremony. But the second reason I am proud to have figured out. It’s definitely the way they get girls in bathing suits to cry so that in the COMING UP THIS SEASON ON THE BACHELOR MONTAGE in episode one, there’s the potential that any of the girls could have made it to a tropical vacation trip, or better, the fantasy suites. They are getting smarter. Clever girl.

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Kartrashian is a hot mess the entire time, alternating between crying and laughing in rapid succession and then kissing like a virgin, meaning, she like stands, awkwardly almost yanks Gigglepuss off a roof, all kinds of rookie mistakes. Sexy isn’t dying after rolling down a Spanish tiled roof to your doom. It ain’t belly rings either (not since the oughties).

Juelia (spelling?) decides she is going to pick a pool party as the right place to tell the world’s most horrible story about her dead husband threatening to kill himself when they just had a newborn and then actually doing that. Chris handles it well, but definitely regretted THE LAST MARGARITA™.

Bratzny grabs a make out and then Jade (who is a Playmate, FYI) cuddles him in bed in her stilettos, which I’m sure all of you do at home, yeah? GIRLS. So predictable. I mean, if I had a dollar for everytime a secret playmate wanted to cuddle in bed I’d have more dollars than the AMAZING JAR™ or at least more than Jade has after her first feature dance at Spearmint Rhino.

There’s a weird hot tub situation with Flight Recorder, who literally won’t leave. She’s like in old war movies when the archers are gonna shoot and the captain keeps being like HOOOOOLD. Only she never fired. She just sat there with presumably the lion’s share of her ass hanging out.

Rose ceremony, three folks we barely knew are gone. One, the teacher I think, seemed great. Lucky her to be gone. Also, three weeks in, we are basically an all white cast again. Do better, guys. This is crazy.

That said, loved this week and last. I’m all in for this season. Share this around and follow me below so we can cuddle. I’ll wear my stilettos.

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BachCap One – Farm to Cable

Sitting down to write this, I have the feeling I have seen described by lots of mommy/fashion/yoga/food/whatever bloggers on Twitter. I feel like I am about to eat a box of unnecessary pastries that I don’t even want that will probably make me sick but I’m doing it anyway because the praise I get on the internet makes it okay.

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That’s where we’re at. Happy 2015.

Before I get started, I’m giving a few caveats for the season. I may not post every week, but I plan to try. Fact is, I’m not a scrappy young producer at an ad agency anymore. I’m reaching in-barrel maturation and lots of people need this bourbon. I have a Super Bowl ad campaign to help land. I have to go to Spain and eat all the jamón. Basically, I’m on planes. A lot. And I won’t always write.

I will always tell you. On Twitter. So follow me. HERE. I’ll tell you everything.

OK. Let’s do this damn thing. But promise me one thing…

YOU BETTER WORK BETCHES.

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I’m not going to spend a lot of time covering the “live” element of this premiere, because it was so up-its-own-ass that I felt like I was watching a colonoscopy. I guess it was nice to see a ton of pseudo celebrities still have enough time to get on airplanes, fly to the world’s fakest red carpet, dress really poorly and search for meaning amongst people who still have enough time to wait in line to see pseudo celebrities you could easily see by going to [insert worst bar ever] in [insert city].

Andi’s basic bro fiance is definitely not ready to commit to planning a wedding because life is hard when you are NOT A DISTRICT ATTORNEY™, but he is ready to try the cake and food because “you know he can eat” – even though he cannot wear a tie. America, if you are built like a brick, don’t wear a skinny tie. I know James McAvoy wore it well on the cover of GQ and you are basic, but he is 5’4″ and 123 pounds. When this meat bucket wears it, it looks like a half-drained river running through the vast tundra.

Breakup in less than 6 months.

Grown Sexy wore the world’s most ridiculous shawl, it looked like those awful clear umbrellas and the most depressing part was she loved it so much she wouldn’t take it off. Actually, the worst part was that she said her and Sean are “practicing” having kids. No. The worst part was his goatee, comb-over haircut combo. No. The worst is that these people still exist and that people still care. Tim Tebow is the only fake born-again virgin I can deal with, only because the sports media tears him apart. Why am I the only person wishing Sean and Grown Sexy would just go away. Forever.

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The red carpet was totally just a big step-and-repeat in a parking lot in Burbank. They weren’t going into an award show. There was no paparazzi. This was a glorified cocktail party at 3pm in the valley on a weekday. That people got dressed up for so they could be on TV again and stand in front of the most desperate form of fan, those that would commit time and resources to attending a red carpet of former Bachelor contestants.

Chris Harrison was wildly snarky, because he is finally blooming out of his cocoon. Soon, the blood bath will begin and Grown Sexy and Sean will wish they weren’t so eager to show up anytime anyone from the show calls them. It’s our fault. We allow them to give relationship advice despite one of them saying “grown sexy” and wearing an outdoor clothing item inside because she thinks it looks good (it doesn’t) and the other who can say with a straight face he was a BORN-AGAIN VIRGIN™. What is the ceremony that makes you such a thing? I just ate too much and wish I didn’t. BORN AGAIN DINNER™. Who wants froyo?

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Time is a Fat Circle (Fat McConnaughy) returns and despite getting the worst ratings of any Bachelor premier (maybe it was that whack ass red carpet wax museum), I love this guy. Driving around his town, you actually understand for the first time why a human being actually would be on this show. In a town of like 400 people, how many of them are actually options to date? If you literally know zero women and live on a massive farm in a landlocked midwestern state, you have two options.

The first is this:

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The second is a deal with the devil:

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Chris needs this show and I think he’s actually serious about finding the right woman. He can dress well (he has good tie to suit to shirt ratio) and he’s rich. Make no mistake, this is not a humble farmer. He owns 6000 acres of Iowa. Chris Soules owns LAND™. Land like Tom Cruise almost died to get in Far and Away. That kind of land. Like, he owns a towns-worth of land and it has zero women on it that he isn’t related to, or judging by the live audience members from his hometown, aren’t obese.

He is here FOR THE RIGHT REASONS™. And he trained for it with CodyCode SeanBro fresh off his WORLD’S MOST PREDICTABLE BREAKUP™ with Michelle Money, who at least got a morning news anchor gig out of going on Bachelor in Paradise, which seems like more than anyone else got (beyond an invite to that whack red carpet in a parking lot).

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So, he’s doing his montage of outdoor showering in the newly redecorated Bachelor house (not the mansion). Someone got inspired by Morocco it would seem. Nothing screams corn and soy farmer like a Moroccan tea house.

We got to meet some of the girls and as you know, nicknames not coming out right away. Half these people aren’t people I will ever see again.

There’s Britt who looks like a Bratz doll. She’s also a “waitress” from LA, which means she auditioned for a guest spot on Modern Family and they were like “take it easy, Topanga, are you single?” and sent her on this show.

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Jillian Michaels was pretty intense with her cross fit regime and monster traps. Loved her in Rocky IV though. DRAGOOO!

There was the adorable widow who lives in ATX and told us that her husband just died out of nowhere. I had a hard time drinking the rest of my whiskey in fear my own heart would stop, but don’t worry. I just switched to rum (Ron Zacapa, if you must know).

There was one girl who named her son Kale, so we know the world’s ending. That’s good.

There’s a cute flight attendant, but if the Bachelor can film on a plane, why can’t Don REPORT THE NEWS™ on Newsroom?

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Bratzny definitely hit it off with Chris from the get-go and her act was pretty worthy of her getting the part. She totally rehearsed, but acted naturally. A real Misener kind of gal. No surprise she got the FIRST ROSE™ and sealed her fate of not ever winning this show ever.

I enjoyed Pam Poovey From Archer, who came out of the car in cowboy gear and then snuck back in the limo in a dress, then proceeded to crush a ton of Jameson, almost pass out standing up and then get the rose anyway.

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She didn’t even take the taco for craziest this episode. That went to the Onion Hunter, who, well. Hunted onions. And then found a pomegranate instead. But wow. That’s a special kind of drunk where you can be terrifying without being threatening. Like, to date that girl is to know that there is a part of her brain that only vodka can reach that is incapable of functioning as a human. She’s picking flowers and being amazed by psychedelic fake onions. She will kill you in your sleep.

There was a WWE Diva in Training, which just means surgically enhanced female wrestler. She had the gnarliest pink eye ever. But she seemed nice for a woman who fights for a living.

Kaitlyn was kind of fun with her awesome contrast of skin color to eye color, her extra dirty pick up line and then great ensuing recovery (WHO IS SHE™). But she loses points for having matching bird tattoos on her triceps, something shunned even here in Portland, a city that is famous for putting birds on shit (and coffee and the might Portland Timbers).

The secret admirer was very scary, both in her outfit and the fact she opened her eyes so much I thought they might swallow something. She also lives at home with mom and dances ballet. The look in mom’s eyes was that of PLEASE DON’T WEAR YOUR PRINCESS JASMINE COSTUME SO YOU CAN WIFE UP AND MOVE OUT.

Too bad.

Let’s just cut to the ending.

It was light out. It was FULLY DAYTIME™.

When I lived near the mansion in California, I ran into a friend at Brent’s Deli who works on the show. He was coming from a rose ceremony that had gone all night. I know they go late. I’ve seen random LED clocks reading 3:30am. But this was extreme. Usually the limo and walk of shame is in the dark. This was a daytime dismissal.

Harsh.

There was a long ass crying montage. And then I blacked out. See you next week. Click the links below for updates on when I’ll post.

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