Tips for a Successful Marriage

Today is my wedding anniversary.

Many people ask me, “Speaker7, why is your marriage so successful?”

My marriage has truly been a partnership as we have raised our two boys with great hope and optimism that they would one day become fine young men. Mr. Speaker7 has often said that God put him on this earth to be a wife and a mother. Our family, of which Mr. Speaker7 is the heart, is testimony that he has embraced that calling. Over the last 28 years, we have loved, cried, laughed, despaired and celebrated. I reveled in featuring my giant pumpkin head, grating Southern accent, and condescending shitball personality on Oprah while making loads of dough exploiting other people’s mental illness.

….Wait a second….Oopsies! I just plagiarized the majority of that last paragraph from Dr. Phil McGraw’s book Family First. My bad, everyone.

The truth is no one has ever asked me about my succesful marriage and Dr. Phil is a colossal fuckstick.

My marriage is successful because I have no trouble admitting when I’m wrong.

The other day, I ate what I thought was a plain roasted edamame. Instead it turned out to be coated in wasabi, a substance slightly hotter than the surface of the sun.

It immediately felt like I flicked a bic lighter inside one of my nostrils. I dipped my tongue in cleaning fluid to dull the burning hemorrhoid sensation on my tongue.

I knew I had fucked up.

If you would like to know some other tips to a successful marriage, they are these:

• drink plenty of cranberry juice
• drink plenty of water
• avoid consuming irritants like caffeine except for the six to eight cups one needs to wake up in the morning
• wipe from front to back

Interestingly this will also keep you from getting a urinary tract infection.

Ready for Cancellation

It’s taken me awhile to put together a recrap of the third episode of the live-doll reality show Ready for Love. 

Rumors swirled that the show had been cancelled, but then executive producer Eva Longoria took to Twitter, saying it is moving to a new time, new night. Tim-something of The Plain White T’s joined the fray saying “Please download my song from iTunes.”

And then I had to deal with my own feelings of despair over the knowledge that I actually wasted moments of my life reading inane tweets and articles on E!

But here we are again, ready-for-lovers!

We begin our “journey” with Tim’s “journey.” Tim is referred to as “rock star” ad nauseum. That’s like calling Snooki, author of the turdpile Confessions of a Guidette, a literary giant.

Bret Michaels, another dude looking for televised love by examining multiple vaginas, is a rock star. Yes, he wears a bandana hairpiece and plays amusement park gigs, but he was a legitimate rock star 25 years ago in that shit band Poison. Tim’s band The Plain White T’s had one hit song. The Fruit of the Loom guys are more recognizable. I don’t know why I’m getting all worked up about this. The important thing is that I have wasted so much of my life and will die with regrets.

Tim plans an unannounced visit to his poon palace at 6 a.m. He jumps on the women’s beds and surprisingly is not kneed in the nuts. He wants them to leave the house sans make up (the horror!!!!). They do, and society comes crashing to a halt. They arrive at a spa, and it’s filled with all things the girlies love like make-up, shoes and transvaginal ultrasounds.

Taonayanayanaya is bummed because she has not engaged in any one-on-one time with Tim. When she gets her chance, she tells Tim he is like a book with all the pages stuck together, which sounds kinda gross. Tim’s expression indicates he feels the same. Awkward silence after his reply: “That’s interesting.” She clumsily moves onto “What’s your sign?” Tim dismisses with “I don’t believe in any of that.”

Taonynayanaya breaks down sobbing in the bathroom, wailing “I’ve been through so much!” That’s an Aquarius for you.

She ends up getting the boot at the rose garden ceremony. Lots of nonsense about “journeys” and “connections” and “this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do™” blather.

Next up is Ernesto’s journey. One of the women, Olivia, keeps crying and saying she wants to leave. Another gets brownie points from the producers by saying “She is not ready for love.”

Olivia meets with Tracy the matchmaker, and talks about her disdain of drama and negative energy even though she has been the main cause of drama and negative energy. Tracy mentions how this show is a process. I thought it was a journey. I’m so fucking confused.

Before she leaves, Olivia engages in crying fit in the living room.

She goes, and it would mean so much more if there weren’t 5,000 other people on this show so I will just leave it at “smell you later.”

Ernesto is having the women get dolled up for a fashion show because this show is trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most gender stereotypes in one television episode. The producers fly his sister in from Milan to go undercover as a style assistant to see what the women have to say about her brother. Erica treats Ernesto’s sister like something on the bottom of her shoe.

Erica tries to say she did not know why she acted like that because she normally has sunshine streaming out of her ass. At the slave auction garden ceremony, Erica is saved and some woman whose name escapes me is tearfully sent home. Cheer up, nameless person, you’ve actually won.

Ben is third, but wins first place in douchery. The show continues its dress-up theme because that’s all the ladies want, right? We want to be pinched into 14-inch heels, stuffed into sausage casings, covered in greasepaint and judged by Us Weekly. Ben salsas and presses his groin and lips against the women. His ex-girlfriend Kari is getting pissed and asks him to refrain from being a “lip slut.”

Matt asks Beth, whom he refers to as “mature” (translation: old), why she is still single. She counters: “Why are you?”

Ben answers: “Because I was in the middle east for four years, duh.” (translation: “I ain’t marrying no middle-eastern person because my brain is full-on douche.”)

Ben lip-sluts it up all over town. The matchmakers send the other women to their pods–one actually refers to it as such–while they grill Kari about her intentions. This is as exciting as the time I did laundry.

Ben decides to send home the single mother with this chestnut:

I don’t know about you, but I am ready for cancellation.

Ready for Zzzzzzzzzzz

Nothing happened on the second episode of Ready for Love.

I mean, I guess some things happened, but in the end it added up to a bunch of nothing. I was most intrigued by audience members holding up signs:

If you are unfamiliar with this new reality television show, it’s basically The Bachelor, but with three dudes of meat. There are also three matchmakers who remind me of The Fates. They choose women from binders and place them in plastic doll cases for the meat dudes’ appraisal. Like so:

Two meat dudes get to flail their meat appendages around tonight. Both dudes are completely comfortable being shirtless in their biographical videos; Ben morso than Ernesto.

Ben bores with his “fascinating” origin story. “My parents were doctors. I’m a frat boy. I worked on Wall Street. I’m comfortable being filmed continually sans shirt.” But if I continue being nonfascinated by Ben, I will miss out on the pfftt that is Ernesto’s journey.

Two of “his” women are former Miss USA contestants. This knowledge thrills the remaining contestants:

Surprisingly, some of the contestants are emotinally unhinged. One waxes fart about her spirituality, and spends the majority of the episode trying to kill one of the beauty queens:

Another expresses astonishment that she has to compete for Ernesto. . . on a reality dating show. She sulks during the extremely relevant hot tub time:

In her one-on-one time, she rambles on about the other women not picking up their pubic hair and dishes. During the matchmaker meeting, she is placed in the bottom three to go home. The dude matchmaker, who has an affinity for vests, says lady is boresville.

Ernesto dumps her, and acts as if the woman he saved from elimination should be thankful for the honor.

Ben has a former ex vying for his frat love. One of the contestants is a virgin who proffers her impending broken hymen as a gift to Ben. Another makes a “save-the-date” card for their wedding and is immediately banished to the bowels of hell. And yet another dresses up as a superhero unfortunately named “Miss Devotion.” Her power is infinite sadness.

Ben overuses “you guys” to refer to his potential wives. He confabs with a woman who has kids, and makes me uncomfortable with his “momma” talk.

His ex thinks “it sucks” that she has to compete with other women. . . on a reality dating show. Ben feels her, dawg.

He kisses a few dames; notably Miss Devotion and then sends her back to the planet Demotion. It is thrilling.

This show also has two cohosts. The married couple that is better known as Giuliana Rancic. Her husband serves no purpose.

I guess there’s that.

Ready for Same-Old Same-Old

Ready for Love premiered Tuesday night.

This show is unlike any other reality dating show you’ll ever see, lies executive producer Eva Longoria.

Lots of dramatic music and lighting. Lots of quick cuts and editing that makes Cloverfield feel like Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope. Random reality-show dialogue ensues.

“It’s about to get real.”

“She’s messing with the wrong person.”

“Herpes! Herpes! Herpes!”

There are three “amazing” bachelors. There are three “top” matchmakers. There are two co-hosts. There are 36 women…excuse me…girls. There is the incessant use of the term girls to describe women. There are 12 drummers drumming. There are eight pipers piping. And chlamydia in a pear tree.

Co-host Giuliana Rancic and her husband Not-Giuliana Rancic say this was an “epic” search, and “we’re meeting the best of the best” of women willing to subject themselves to reality television. Not-Giuliana Rancic is the first to misuse the word “literally.” And it is “epic” and like “nothing I’ve ever seen before” except that I have.

Tonight is Tim’s quest for love. Tim is a “rock star” in the band the Plain White T’s.

In the first of 5,678 mini-biographies, Tim confesses that he’s not a stereotypical rock star in the sense that he’s unrecognizable. Tim married his high school sweetheart, but things didn’t work out because he was touring 367 out of the 365 days in the year. He’s sad, yo. See:

Tim gets to meet four women chosen for him by “top” matchmaker Amber. Giuliana explains that Tim will have to stand behind a wall and not see the four. He will have to pick three based on their personalities. I have never seen this before ever.

Wait…have I seen this before?

Nope. Never.

Amber is coaching her “girls.”

“Words and lyrics speak to him,” she amazes “Get your message across.”

Wow. I’ve been doing it wrong all these years with my set of semaphore flags.

We get Amber’s mini-biography. She says she doesn’t know how anyone meets people in clubs. “Matchmaking goes with the 21st century.” And feudal China.

And it begins. The four women pop up in boxes.

And it reminds me of something…what can it be?

Yup, that’s about right.

This is working well for Tim because his Madame Alexander Doll collection is missing a few essentials.

We get mini-biographies of the women, but they’re short because most dolls are interchangable. The French one gets a shot to show her spontaneity by spinning awkwardly in a plaza.

Tim narrows down the field and does the same thing with four women chosen by matchmaker Matt, also known as the douche with a British accent:

And Tracy, who unironically refers to herself as “the honest truth.”

The ladies must entice Tim while he only has to breathe with his lungs and eliminate waste with his kidneys. Love!

Some recite insipid poetry, sing and, unfortunately, beatbox. The nine winners get sealed in plastic and placed in a special Matchbox car collector’s case. The three losers are sucked into the bowels of hell.

One of Tim’s chosen harem is Leah, a woman he has known for six years. Leah realized she loved Tim when she heard he was to be on television. Giuliana asks about the nature of their relationship. “We had our moments that have been great,” Leah says coyly. (translation: fuck buddy)

The women are shipped UPS to Tim’s rock-star lair where they are subjected to a Plain White Zzzz’s concert.

And I have never seen anything like this on a reality dating show. Have I?

Nope. I haven’t.

The women meet with the matchmakers for “helpful” “advice” before their collective first date with Tim. Amber tells her women to “build (their) brand” whatever the fuck that means. The date entails finishing Tim’s trite love song. The matchmakers each pick one woman to share one-on-one time with Tim.

Hailey, Amber’s pick, tells an embarrassing fart story and cryingly cries that she’s happy.

Danielle, Matt’s pick, shares her cute list of 50 or more qualities her perspective mate must have.

Christina, Tracy’s pick, plays the piano and stares at him as if she wants to murder his face.

Now we’re back in the studio for the matchmakers’ critique. Amber expresses her displeasure with Hailey. “You said F-A-R-T? And that word should never be uttered by a woman on a date,” she actually says all the while holding in her 52,560th fart. Matt accuses Leah of retreading the past too much and being boring. “He knows certain parts of me,” Leah says.

“I would like him to know other parts.”

Giuliana cuts to the chase: “Did you guys fuck or what?”

Leah refuses to answer. Yup, they did.

The matchmakers each choose a woman for elimination. Hmm…a woman being eliminated from a reality dating show. Have I seen that before?

Nope.

Leah, farting Hailey and Toothy School Teacher are on the chopping block. Tim arrives. For some reason he has a quill sticking out of his lapel. It’s so…rock star? Sure, let’s go with that.

He picks Hailey to stay and she farts back to the Matchbox case. Tim, Leah and Toothy are Star-Trek beamed to some garden for the elimination ceremony, and the giant jumbotron screen goes to snow.

Tim shows his familiarity with reality television venacular by saying “This is so difficult for me.” He ends up sending Leah home with the obvious “if we were meant to be together, why didn’t we make that happen in Austin.”

Hmm. A bachelor with a little brain function.

That I have not seen.

Well Fuck.

The Bachelor season finale is tonight, and it’s three motherfucking hours long. There is no possible way I will make it through. Let’s just assume Bland gave some dame a promise ring and will be unpromised-ringed in two months, and dating another low-rent reality star while his agent vies for Bland’s appearance as Donald Trump’s wigfluffer on Celebrity Apprentice.

It’s starting. So much filler. Host Chris Harrison has abused the word “dramatic.” I dramatically hate him. Bland sees wives like the Sixth Sense kid sees dead people.

There’s a live audience? What the fuck? Chris Harrison is bellowing “Hello! We’re live?” and then abuses the word “historic.”  Chris Harrison thinks he’s on Nightline and blathers bullshit about “breaking news” while the dying newspaper industry dies a little more. Yes it is breaking news if a wooden Trojan horse neighs platitudes at a dummy, and the dummy says “poop.”

I’m going to start drinking. I’m going to start drinking whenever someone expresses how difficult shit is and how dramatic shit is. I will be drunk by 8:30.

The ladies get to meet the vagina and peen ensemble that made Bland. Catherine is first. Reality-television hugging. Bland’s sister looks like one-armed Sarah, a former Bachelor contestant and now I’m very mixed up. More wine.

Weird talking between Catherine and Bland’s mom. Bland’s mom suffers from vocal fry. “Bland pooped in the potty at seven,” Bland’s mom shares. “And then again at 27. We’re so proud of him. Can you change diapers?”

The dad thinks there something called The Bachelor process. Why the fuck does my dad not know about The Bachelor process? Why have you forsaken me father?

The father is Sean Hayes in character.

Is it 11 p.m., yet?

No. It’s 8:11. That means I have 2 hours and 49 minutes. I have now begun carving into my face with a drill bit.

Lindddsssayyy is next. Bland is hoping for family clarity. I say blow jobs for all.

Linddsaaaayyyy vocal fries nonsense about meeting her possible reality family. Sean Hayes (aka dad) wants to make out with someone. Yes, Lindddssayyy was the dipshit that wore the wedding dress at the opener. They dull about this for an eternity. Oh good. We have two hours and 40 minutes left. I’m going to go get something hefty and start bashing myself in the face with it.

Lindsaayyyy asks Sean Hayes for Bland’s hand in marriage and then cackles because women’s rights are bullshit.

More bloop with Lindssayyyyy and Bland’s mom. Let’s just assume it’s full-on vocal fry and full-on nonsense. Bland still wants to marry everyone including that pumped up dude he sees in that special glass called a mirror.

People are applauding in the live audience even though they know they’re in for the long haul.  Bland is walking pensively in a light blue tank top. Last date with Lindssassayy. They take a raft ride on the Mekong River. Bland pretends to know geography. “That land is Thailand. And that other land isn’t.”  They make out while the rowers add on to their hatred of America.

There’s not enough wine in the world, gentle reader, to get me through this. And I’m not even a full hour in. You all realize I will be asleep in 20 minutes. I’m somewhat asleep now as Lindsssyayy and Bland make out as I pull my fingernails off.

Lindsssayyyy has something special for Bland. She farts into a sack and makes him smell it.

Love.

We’re now at hour two and I am intoxicated. Intoxicated on love and wine…mostly wine.

It’s very dramatic.

Catherine’s final date. An elephant is exploited. That’s it. Oh, there’s some kissing.

I’m nearly done. I’m sorry. I know you depend on me, but see this whole “spring forward” has fucked everything up. My son has a cold, which means he shimmied into my room a couple of times before finally joining us for a few crappy non-sleep hours. So I’m tired and this is not holding my interest.

Catherine sees blahhing at Bland forever and “tonight is the night” she proclaims so I surmise that means “blow job.”

Bland is feeling “the pressure” of his member stretching aganist his sweatpants. More kissing with cameras present.

Catherine is crying because Bland is not expressing emotion. No one is expressing emotion.

Here is my emotion: Floop.

Chris Harrison is here with his “Bachelor Nation” and if I was actually a part of a Bachelor Nation, I would want a bullet to mesh with my head.

An hour and 40 minutes left. Are you fucking kidding me? I’m asleep in 20 minutes. That is not a guess. That is a fact.

Bland rubs oil on his shirtless body. He flexes his veiny arms as he thinks he can wife up both gals.  Too bad Joseph Smith didn’t make the dream of polygamy a reality. Instead he was murdered by a mob. Romance.

Weird plastic-surgeony ring dude. This makes me want to take my engagement ring and throw it into the woods.

More shirtless Bland. He is prepared to love love and love and love. I need another drink.

Bland is crying because his nipples are rubbing against a shirt.

Liinnnddaaayyy is “so happy” she says as she cries happily.

Bland states this is the most difficult thing he’s ever had to do™.  I eye my bed with love.  I think we have a connection.

The Bachlor Nation is applauding again. Former contestants are going to blather nonsense about pooft.

Chris Harrison pretends this will be all resolved soon, but I know math. This flop is three hours long and we’re only one hour and 40 minutes into it.

Chris Harrison mentions some “infamous letter” and I’m drawn to my bed. I love you my bed whispers. Do you, bed? This is the most difficult decision I’ve ever had to make. Do I go to you or do I watch bullshit?

So he dumps Linddssaeeyyayayyy.

How can there be an hour and 10 minutes left?

Bland is crying.

Lindsaaayy is feeling sad. “This is really sad? Why is this sad?” And bye.

My bed wants me so hard.

Chris Harrison pops up with a “Hey man.” He gives Bland a ”dramatic” letter. There is over an hour left. I’m going to eat arsenic.

There is mix voiceover between Catherine and Bland reading a letter written by Clippit, the paper clip icon of Microsoft Word. It’s that good.

Bland proposes and Clippit says yes. It says Yes! goddammit!

They will be broken up by St. Patrick’s Day.

Now for the late breaking news. . . I sharted in my pants. And The Bachelor Nation loves it. Loves it!

Bland and Lindssaayyyy bleat at each other again. Bland mentions his heart took him to stupid places and Lindssayyy is happy for his two brain cells “and…” Lindssayyy ends her sentence like normal folk do.

I love you all so much and this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do™ but I’m going to bed.

The Boredom Continues: The Women Tell All

I missed the first 20 minutes. I was reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear to my son. It is infinitely more fascinating. Do you know that a red bird sees a fucking yellow duck!?!

Okay so I’m assuming the rejected Bachelor women are getting their chance to vent about  their total lack of judgment. I’m guessing because all I can see is an Olive Garden commercial and it looks very microwavey.

I forget that we began season XCVIIVCV of The Bachelor with 4,502 women. I recognize so few. Host Chris Harrison is attempting to stir the boring shit pot by bringing up the token villain of the show, Tire. Her real name is Tierra, but Tire is better. Brooke(?) gets real: “You’re upset because y’all didn’t also act like assholes and get more airtime,” she paraphrases before fading into further obscurity.

Chris Harrison polls the audience: What do you think about Tire?

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, it responds.

Chris Harrison sticks his hand down his pants and then asks “What’s up with the villain?”

Commercial.

We’re back. Tire is getting coached on the opportune time to show her sparkley vagina. The producers are trying to make us feel the Oz curtain has been lifted and we can see reality, but it still tastes like canned crab.

Now it’s Tire’s time.

And it’s . . . carhorn

I can’t find a better way to describe it. All I know is I’m bored and indifferent.

“And if she didn’t want be your friend, then walk away girls. And you were mean so blah,” bores someone.

“I can’t remember everything,” Tire tires.

“Did you stink eye people,” Chris Harrison asks because he gets quite a bit of money for this stupidity.

“I don’t do stink eye and say ‘Oooh,'” Tire pfftttss.

More banality and the end of the world and middle school ended two decades ago everyone. Congratulations.

This goes on for eons. The Bronze Age becomes the Iron Age. Chlamydia becomes super gonorrhea.

Tire was little Miss Nevada. This is your future, Honey Boo Boo. I’m so fucking sorry.

Tire is engaged to a gremlin. Chris Harrison is aghast that Tire dated it before The Bachelor since The Bachelor is all about twrue lurve. And booooooooooooo.

There’s 58 minutes left. Fucking hell.

Now on to Sarah, of the one arm. She watches as Bland rejects her for too much brains and too little limbs.

“You thought he was the one,” Chris Harrison interjects with a straight face.

“My whole life I’ve been strung along by dickwads and then after the handjobs, they say things aren’t right. Lies like flies, you dig?” she paraphrases.

“How do you move on from this,” Chris Harrison tries to create tension.

Fuck a duck, Chris, she basically says.

Does Splash look like the stupidiest reality concept ever? And I say this after viewing the majority of The Bachelor: The Women Tell All.

Now up is Desiree, the future Bachelorette, and her Bland montage. I’m as bored as the first time.

My recap of this is. . .cream of wheat. Cream of wheat is really blah unless you add something, and there is nothing to add to The Bachelor flavor of Cream of Wheat.

There are 45 fucking minutes left. Is time standing still?

I’m not going to make it. I know Ashley is up next–Ashley of the death stare. And then Bland will be there to bland it up with his blandness. Can we just assume that it will be boring and pointless so I can go to sleep.

Let’s.

Bland’s Sister Wives

Bland of  The Bachelor is having bland struggles.

“I like these girls, but I live in a country that outlaws polygamy. I think I should take off my shirt.”

Serious ponderous swimming. Bland is shirtless.

He is transported to Thailand to get a firsthand glimpse of how prostitution rings are really run, and to “find my wife.”

First date is with Lindddsseeyyyy. Her voice is as pleasant as chewing on aluminum foil filled with pop rocks. Incidentally I believe that is what is in her head in place of a brain.

They go to a farmer’s market, and openly laugh at the “cuteness” of a thousand-year-old culture. They eat bugs. Linddsseeyyy looks like she’s about to barf.

The producers attempt to create tension by having Linddsseeyyy vocal fry over whether she should tell Bland she loves his giant red face. They head to dinner. Linddseeyyy describes the beauty: “There’s beautiful flowers made out of petals.”

Yup…that’s usually how it works.

Finally the moment arrives:

“I love you,” Linddsseeyyy brays

I love hearing you say that,” Bland smugly replies.

Ow.

I mean, I have absolutely no feelings left in my being, but that even hurt me a little.

They spend the night together.

Now onto his second conquest AshLee. AshLee is a “personal organizer.”

He wants to challenge her by having them swim through a cave to get to a private beach. Ominous music plays as AshLee says cave-swimming reminds her of being abandoned as a child. Mmm? What the fuck, now?

He wants “my wife” to let go of control, which is code for “always does what I say.” AshLee’s “scared” and “vulnerable” even though there’s a whole camera crew ready to save them if necessary. Please don’t.

I’m feeling vulnerable or bored. Bored might be more appropriate.

Bland has no compunction making the same wife claims to AshLee right before she is to decide to spend the night with him. Where have I seen this move before? Oh right, when he did the same thing with Linddsseeyyy. Romance!

AshLee knows Bland is her “soulmate” — gah — and that he’s healed her broken heart. He’s gonna look like a big ol asshole when he dumps her for one of the younger ones.

Last date with Catherine. She yips around like a hyped-up toddler puppy. This will likely be shorter than the rest because I’m dividing my time between punching myself in the face to stay awake and looking up naked pictures of Orville Redenbacher on the Internet.

Snorkling and thunderstorm kissing. Overnight date discussion. “I’m not a whore,” Catherine paraphrases. “But I’ll spend the night.”

Catherine was fearful of putting her heart out there™ but she has never worn a bathing suit around someone as much as Bland, and I’m wondering if she’s speaking in Thai because I have lost the ability to comprehend anything.

Bro-meet between Bland and Chris Harrison. Bland discusses his “pain” from being rejected by a Bachelorette during the fabricated fantasy dates. He has to dump someone though “to reach my final goal,” which is f-list celebrity and occasional appearances in US Weekly dry-humping other f-list celebrities.

Seven years later we get to the rose ceremony. He sends AshLee packing. The other two ninnies gripe that she didn’t say “good-bye” as AshLee storms off.

She glares at Bland as if she’s willing her eyeballs to fly out of her skull and stab him in the face. He attempts to explain himself and just looks redder and redder. And for the first time, it actually feels a little realistic. He is a bumbling ass and she is crushed. Okay, that’s over.

Three-hour finale in two weeks.

Kill me.

This is, like, stupid almost

Truer words have never been spoken.

Bland looks really red. He is getting ready or red-dy to meet his concubines’ families. Zing! I’m here all week.

AshLee, of the interestingly capitalized name, has been living for this moment or some such nonsense. Yes… “Hey mom and dad! Come meet this man who is also meeting three other sets of moms and dads and revel in the reality! The reality of it all!”

AsHleE thinks Bland is the man “to protect my heart.” I think I should be drunk. Why am I not drunk?

aShlEe’S been thinking about this day “since I was 3 years old.” What the fuck did she just say?

They eat a normal dinner with aShleE’s PaRenTs at a kitchen table stuck awkwardly on the back lawn.

“Bland is, like, making out with other girls and then he, like, makes out with me. And, like, mom, like, do you remember, when I was, like, 4, and you, like, read Peter Rabbit, and I was, like, do you think I’ll ever meet my Mr. MacGregor? And, like, I’m, like, here he is. Like?” ASHLee rambles on at the greatest luncheon she envisioned when she was 5.

AsHleE’s dad looks like a porcupined-version of Cliff Clavin.

We’re now in Seattle with Catherine and her “journey.” Bland catches a fish in the Seattle Fish Market and promptly makes out with it. It’s so spontaneous or incredibly staged.

Bland uses the word “always” a lot to describe how awesome his relationship is with Catherine. “We’re always really boring.” “We’re always suck.” “We’re always contributing to the decline of the universe.”

This is the greatest love story since that commercial I saw about Fiber One granola bars.

Catherine’s sisters exhibit brain function: “You seem like you’re trying to convince yourself that you like him.”

Some “tension.”

Next stop: Linddddsseeeyyy’s hometown in somewhere Missouri. Her dad’s a two-star general so this means something for The Bachelor that I find too boring to try to comprehend.

Bland puts on an army turtleneck while Lindddsseeyy vocal fries orders at him. It makes me wish that a meteor would crash into my face.

On Friday, I watched the movie The Sessions. I highly recommend it. It’s been so long since I’ve watched a movie that made me feel something and made me actually care for the people in the story.

This episode of The Bachelor is the opposite of that feeling.

Lindssseyy’s house has a gun/spice rack. Her mom also vocal fries.

America.

Bland asks for Lindsey’s father’s permission to penetrate his property and *yawn*…story about paratrooping and I’ve gone deaf and sure, here’s your blessing and my lack of caring is like that time I went paratrooping.

There’s an hour left.

Fuck.

I would like your blessing to not watch the second hour.

Thanks for nothing.

Now we’re in Desiree’s sweet hick hometown of LA.

They meet each other in spandex because. . . LA.

Time to meet the fam. An ex-boyfriend shows up instead. He declares his love. “I’ve texted you,” he facebooks. And it feels…LA. Not like this guy is trying to break into acting and shows up at an opportune moment to get his ass-face on TV or anything.

I think I’m going to bed.

But then I will miss why I titled this post the way I did.

Oh it’s a joke. And it’s funny?

No.

Her family shows up. Her mother seems high. Desiree’s brother Nate is the one who sayeth: “This is, like, stupid almost.”

Wrong, bro. It’s, like, all stupid.

More Filler from The Bachelor

I missed the first few minutes of The Bland-lor.

Someone’s crying. Others are wearing bikinis. Bland is shirtless for the 456th time. This might be the entire recrap. It’s riveting, yes?

They are on some island. I believe it’s Molokai, the former leper colony.

The Villain™ gets the date card as per the producers’ instructions. She complains about bugs and dripping makeup and a lack of dignity (I may have made up this last part, but that doesn’t make it less true). One of the 194 women vying for Bland’s gland catfights: “(The Villain™) is the most unhappy person I’ve ever encountered.”

Nope, that would be me.

The crying girl is crying on her date because she confessed to getting married when she was 17. Bland deduces “That’s young.” A real Einstein, that one.

She now feels like she ruined her reality show date where she’s competing with 87 other genitalia and hair extensions to chew on Bland’s face. Bland pretends to not care, but looks like he’s sucking on a lemon while he kisses her.

She screams “I love Bland!” like a 10-year-old at a One Direction concert, and it takes Bland five seconds to realize she’s talking about him.

The Villain™ date. They eat snow cones and ignore the grinding poverty of the island inhabitants. Back at the house, the other bachelorettes bitch about her. “I used a spoon correctly with my grapefruit and she didn’t even congratulate me,” says one. The Villain™ and Bland talk about the “tension” in the house, and I lose consciousness from strangling myself with my computer charger.

The bachelorettes vocal fry at one another about how “bad” “It’s going to be baaaaddddd” “Oh my goddddrrrr, it’s going to be baaaaadddd” “dra-mah-tic” when The Villain™ confronts Child Bride™ about badmouthing her to Bland.

Producers, here’s a little tip from me to you. You’ve got to show not tell. Having drunk women bleat at each other about how tense everything’s going to be, does not create tension.

Group date. Bland storms the castle and wakes them by taking pictures of their makeup-less faces. Bland knows “girls hate being seen without their makeup.” Oh Bland…the many, many things you do know could fill my makeup case. Incidentally I do not have one.

They drive around. The producers show their trip on an animated map and it sucks as much as you would expect. It makes Dora’s adventures look like Indiana Jones’. One of the three datees declares “This is the perfect date.” Oh dear.

Another fucking one-on-one date. Bland blathers more nonsense about “journeys” and “coffee enemas.” Bland’s relationship with nameless is “not where it needs to be,” which is code for “lack of handjob.”

Cheezus christmas, there’s 42 minutes left.

Bland’s sister Blandette shows up. Bland can’t wait to talk about all his feelings, and ends up proposing to his sister. Now that would be a good fucking show.

Ooh. Ooh. The “fight” between The Villain™ and Child Bride™. It’s as exciting as the time my dentist told me I should do a better job brushing the back of my bottom teeth. I gave it right back when I said “Okay.”

Here are the highlights:

“I can’t control my eyebrow.”

“My parents said I had a sparkle. Don’t let the other girls take it away.”

Bland shows up to The Villain™ massaging Vick’s Vapor Rub into her eyes to simulate crying. Bland’s heart or head weighs heavy–probably head–because he’s formulating a thought…The Villain™ appears unstable. He let’s her go. She cries and cries and says “No one will take my sparkle.”

Sparkle on, Sparkle-maker. Sparkle on.

 

The Borelor

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Hmm?

Oh, yes. I’m recrapping The Bachelor.

It is two hours long!?! What the fuH.

I’ve got this. I’ve totally got this.

Um…

So this guy? Yep, his name is Bland. He likes his harem o’ ladies. He’s getting really connectedvilled with some of them. Some ladies are like “Fart.” Others are like “Poopy.” One sharts a sonnet.

This one climbs a mountain and claims her religion prevents her from kissing Bland on TV, but not from completely humilating herself on TV. Bland wants to kiss her, but also wants to drink a shoe filled with milk.

Roller derby group date. Woman I’ve never seen before say “I’m irrelevant.” Someone falls, cracks her head open and shredded paper falls out. Sarah, of the one-arm, cries because this is the most boring episode. Bland’s heart bleeds Pringles® and gives her a pep talk that makes me want to chew off my arm.

Skate, skate, ambulance, feh.

One woman on the group date is trying to be interesting by being “the villain,” but she is just boring and makes me wish I was watching someone chew gum. “I’m going to leave,” she bores and ugh.

There is an hour left.

For fuck’s sake.

Random woman wonders why she is not sticking her finger in Bland’s bunghole. She does not get the coveted one-on-one date card. The other woman who earlier was crying about bloopy gets it and I’m so…..I’m so dead inside.

They both have crazy eyes and talk about how “excited” they are for this date. Driving. Interesting conversation ensues:

“We’re in Beverly Hills,” Bland says.

“I know,” says date person.

Pretty Woman reference. “We’re living out the fantasy,” Bland says. I think he thinks he’s getting a blow job from a hooker.

Clothes montage and…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I’m up. I’m up.

She is getting her wish or her chlamydia, I don’t know, but she’s getting something and pffttt….45 minutes left. I swear time is standing still.

Bland is not feeling a “romantic ” connection with date person. “Romantic” connection means “hand job.” No rose for her. She leaves.

Bland heads back to the date by himself to hear “Ben Taylor” sing on his guitar. What is happening?

Rose falls “dramatically”to the ground. Some petals fall off.

I look dramatically at the clock and cry.

Bland platitudes to a bunch of random people before the rose ceremony. “I love ______ about ______.”

I love nothing about this show.

And this is why I won’t make it to the end, but I’m sure the rose ceremony is “dramatic” and “shocking,” but now is the time for…

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.