I hate to admit it but last night I wasted a couple of hours of my precious time on earth watching the finale of The Bachelor. Like millions of other misguided viewers I watched as Ben proposed to this season's chosen villianess, Courtney. I told myself I was only watching to keep my daughter company but the truth is, this mindless diversion was infinitely preferable to doing the dishes loitering in the sink or folding the dryer full of rapidly wrinkling laundry.
The show's premise has always been beyond ridiculous but this year's cast was particularly aggravating. The bachelor himself was a bit of a doofus; likeable enough but seemingly born without any real personality. Watching these twenty-five women battle so vigorously to be his bride seemed more false than usual. Most of these women wouldn't have given him a second glance if they'd met up with him at their local watering hole so why on earth were they fawning all over his mop-headed goofiness? My best guess is the more they convinced themselves they were falling for him, the more places they were going to see. By my count the final two got to make out in San Francisco, Belize, Puerto Rico, Panama, and Switzerland. Since most of us get dumped in Chilli's parking lot or sitting at the kitchen table, maybe they didn't make such a bad deal after all.
Like the fool that I am, I stuck around to see the post mortem known as After the Final Rose. Since all the tabloids had enthusiastically reported that the happy couple had already split up, it came as a surprise that they were still engaged. Wow! They made it. Four months after the episodes were taped, surviving a temporary split, they were still a couple. Good for them. But Ben and Courtney, I have only one thing to say.
Call me in twenty-eight years and let me know how it's going.
No comments:
Post a Comment