February 10, 2010

Late On The Band Wagon And Already I Want To Jump Off

Oh my God, The Bachelor. Is this for real? I almost can't write this because I don't know how to write in eye rolls and gags and sounds of pure disgust and mortification at even having a vagina while watching this circus.

Dear Luke or Duke or Jack or whatever your name is,

It's clear to us all that the women are beautiful. And they "look amazing". We get it. You say it all. the. time. About all of them. Along with "I've missed you" or "I missed this" and "There's something between us" and "She's special". Please just shut up. Stop talking. Stop making those concerned faces, you look constipated and, no pun intended but, full of shit. You're not coming out of this thing with a wife. You're just not. And at this point you should consider yourself lucky because of the 4 you went on hometown dates with you will end up the other half of a pretty package, a doormat, a puppet, or a rebound husband. Run away. Now.



Dear Gia,

Sweetheart, did you really think you needed to educate Luke or Duke or Jack or whatever his name is on who that tall, green lady in the harbor was? And in the event that you really thought he didn't know, you should be embarrassed to whore yourself out to such a damn idiot on national television. But that's just me. Now that I got that off my chest, I think I like you the best. Or at least you irritated me the least. Either way, you win.



Dear Vienna,

Honey, I know everyone hates you. That's probably why I like you. Beyond that, I think you are what Kate Gosslin started out as. You are too much for Luke or Duke or Jack or whatever his name is. Have you already picked out the jar where you will keep his balls? Is it decorative or just your ordinary, average canning jar? Just wonderin'. Carry on.



Dear Ali,

Ali, Ali, Ali... Who do you think you're fooling, honey? First of all, you really need to work on your fake crying. That was TERRIBLE! You cannot work a man properly with a performance like that. "Oh no, I'm being forced to go home or lose my job and I think I have to since I'm not sure about us..." is code for "I can't wait for the rose ceremony, please tell me I'm the one, Luke or Duke or Jack or whatever your name is." It's akin to the old fake pregnancy scare; in the end it will get you nowhere. So buh-bye.



Dear Tenely,

Oh dear God, love, will you please shut the hell up about your ex? He sucked, we get it. Your heart was broken, we get it. You were depressed for a year, we get it. He didn't appreciate your dancing, we get it. We have some news for you - Luke or Duke or Jack or whatever his name is doesn't appreciate it either. He just likes screwing you. Also, if there weren't 12 cameras on him when you started your interpretive dance to Canon in D, he would have run like hell. Like hell I tell you! And laughed. Snickered even. I saw it in his eyes. It was uncomfortable for all of us.
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