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.
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…
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?
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.