The Bachelor.

8 Feb

“I’m going to write about how much I fucking hate The Bachelor,” I just said to Brandon.

Since you’re all aware of my cable tv situation, if not having cable tv can be considered a “situation,” one of the 3 channels we do receive is the Fox Family network. Er go, every 11 minutes, “Jason’s” stupid ass face is pouting on my fuzzy televisions screen. Get out of my tv you sappy bastard, I want to shout, and sometimes I do. Every program on daytime and nighttime television seems to find a way to weasel The Bachelor into its show, whether they interview this douche, analyze the psyche behind the individuals, or make commentary about the “head turning outcome.” This Jason fellow then sobs into the television about how he came onto the show (twice) to find “true love.” Listen, Jasogay–if you didn’t find it here the first time, what makes you think that the second time around will be any different? In case nobody has told you, Hollywood reality TV, as a general rule of thumb, is a better place to get a BJ from a bimbo with fake boobs, not find your life partner.

Since it appears you’re having trouble grasping this logic, let me offer you a few suggestions that seem to have worked for other people in the same figurative boat as you:

Online Dating.
Aha! With technology like it is today, you’re only a click away from a real connection without all the money whores who are more turned on by their 15 minutes of fame than they are by your Sunset Spray-On Tan.

Meet At A Bar!
Drunk people are very open to the idea of “true love.” Starting here would eliminate the fame factor entirely, and make you a lot less picky about the girl you choose.

Stop crying so much.
Things seem to just “not work out” with the ladies you’re meeting on the show? Maybe you’re exploring the wrong crowd. Maybe try boys. Or a woman with a dick.

Accept the fact that every girl on that show sees dollar signs, and settle for a gold digger.
Nobody’s perfect. If your dream girl enjoys how Benjamin Franklin looks more than she enjoys how you look, let that be okay. Besides, whoever said money can’t buy happiness has never driven a Mazerati.

Give up.
Know when your uphill battle is futile. If you can’t find somebody shallow enough to stick around after becoming famous, receiving a butt load of money, and doing it all twice, maybe it’s time to throw in the towel. You are simply screwed. You also might have horrible breath.

My bed is a fragment of heaven. I laid wide awake in it for at least 30 minutes this morning (if you consider 11:30 a.m. to be morning) enjoying how comfortable it was. With my mattress pad/imitation down comforter/microplush blanket combination, sleeping in my bed is like sleeping inside an angel food cake. It’s amazing. I never want to leave it. Hook me up to a feeding tube and a catheter, mom. I’m never getting up again.

I want summer to be here immediately, minus the humidity and fat girls in halter tops. I knew the summery weather was too good to be true. After three blissful days of 70-80 degree weather, fresh breezy air and bright sunshine, busting out the flip flops and summer dresses and shorts, reality sets back in as the wind becomes brisk and chilly and the sky is overcast. I hate teases. The weather needs to just commit. Either be awesome, or don’t. Same with Britney Spears.


Brandon: “That’s why you like them so much, it’s because they’re Canadian.”
Me: “Oh, is that why you like everyone you like so much–because they’re American?”
Brandon: “Think about it: Barenaked Ladies, Alanis Morrisette–”
Me: “I don’t really like either of them that much.”
Brandon: “Oh, RIGHT.”


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