Man, I love feminism. But as a strong, independent woman who is studying something that will hopefully lead to a successful career, even I can admit that sometimes it gets lonely. Sometimes, I roll over in my Disney Princess twin bed late at night and reach for a loving prince who just isn’t there. How many nights have I spent singing Destiny’s Child into a hairbrush microphone by myself, eased only by the sweet intoxicating warmth of Jack Daniel’s? Too many, I tell you. Don’t judge me: we all have our dreams. And, whatever, okay? Mine just happens to be that I might wake up in a mansion in L.A. with a tall blond Texan man on one side, a camera crew on the other and 29 other women glaring daggers at me in front. For this week’s Spoiler Alert, I watched the season premiere of The Bachelor so you don’t have to — but let’s be honest, you were going to watch it anyways.
Promoted as the “most controversial season ever,” it focuses on Brad Womack, a repeat Bachelor who, after turning down two women the first time around and spending three years in therapy, has come back to choose a wife. F’sho, not f’play this time. And he’s got a fine selection to choose from…I think. After the first 45 minutes the white teeth, blonde hair and tacky Fairweather prom dresses kind of blend into each other, but I’m sure each girl is special on the inside. We just haven’t gotten there yet, as the first half hour is all just shots of Womack shirtless and crying in the rain over his own emotional incapability to find love, the second is composed of brief looks at four women and their personal lives, and the rest is basically a blur of potential wives and their “fuck me” eyes (to him) and “fuck you” glares (to everyone else).
Don’t get me wrong, though, some of these chicks actually look like they might possess a hint of personality, like Raichel, the “manscaper,” who works at a beauty salon specializing primarily in waxing hair off the balls of some presumably pretty sadistic dudes. And Shawntel, a funeral director/licensed embalmer who dreams of ending up in a mausoleum beside Womack. The rest of the girls have equally dubious professions &- Keltie the Radio City Rockette, Madison, a model who’s so obsessed with vampires she has permanent fucking fangs (my first choice for “Crazy Reality TV Bitch”), and Meghan, a “fashion marketer” who drops some Petrarch-esque goodies like, “I think meeting the man of my dreams would be the perfect accessory, for sure” (priorities, anyone?).
I mean, they say this stuff, and all I can think is “porn porn porn porn porn.” But that’s just me.
Anyway, as exciting as it is to see who gets a coveted rose (to let them know they’re still in the running), the best part is watching the mascara run down the raccoon eyes of the girls who have to pack up and hit the nearest bar, drink themselves into oblivion and bang the nearest stranger. After all, rejection is a pill that works faster than a roofie.
But remember, girls: nothing is sexier than self-esteem. So when Ashley the “nanny” (yeah, right) got her rose, it wasn’t because of her positive outlook on life and her love of kids, it was because she respected herself enough to cake on a full pot of face powder and join a group of 30 other women to throw herself at some hot stranger with a bad reputation with the ferocity of a jungle lion. Cue the Seal music.
