The latest installment of The Bachelor, unlike previous seasons, was not draped in its traditional superlative bunting. It wasn’t dubbed “the most controversial” or “the must-see” or “the I-can’t-believe-anyone-on-this-show-doesn’t-know-any-adjectives-stronger-than-good,-amazing,-or-awesome-est” Bachelor ever. We all know that The Bachelor is a closely guarded success formula brewed up by network psychologists, producers, and, well, good looking people with amazing bodies looking to have an awesome time/journey/adventure.
I’m by no means a historian of the show, but I have watched a few of the previous seasons. I was excited that America did its slobbering best to choose what it thought would be the perfectly lovable Lancelot for our perpetual march to a pop culture Camelot. Like most decisions made via an emotional, un-thought out American public, this one’s repercussions are both hilarious and quite telling of our collective psyche.
I wasn’t sure how to get into this season. I was aware of Juan Pablo only peripherally. Basically, he was mildly talented as a wacky western stuntman and says “yodeling” in the most darling foreign accent. Still unaware of how to fall in love with Juan Pablo, I turned to the one thing that I knew would at least keep me engaged. Gambling. Specifically, an NCAA-esque Bachelor bracket. Super specifically, an NCAA-esque Bachelor bracket where the winners were picked by my cats.
Recently, I read an article that claimed that cats feel their human owners (I’m sure they don’t use that term, though) are just big dumb versions of themselves. I couldn’t agree more, but what’s missing in a cat’s life that only a hardly communicative, bumbling, yet never ending bringer of food can offer? A systematic delivery method for a ridiculous amount of treats. I’ll let the cats take it from here. Grab a stiff drink (or an Ecto Cooler in honor of Harold Ramis) and join me on the broad, fur covered futon of American pop-culture.
Danger: My first impression of Juan Pablo was that he was a vapid, easy-on-the-eyes living embodiment of the stereotypical Latin lover archetype. But America likes its foreigners to only sound foreign, so luckily, he was a blond haired blue-eyed jock. America seemed to be really enamored with him, and Chris Harrison apparently had data-driven metrics to prove this, so there you have it.
Muddy: I wasn’t paying attention to any of this. I do know that between my nightly careening from room to room and literally trying to scratch my own shadow off the wall, I heard something about getting twenty-some-odd treats every Saturday. I don’t know how to sign up for stuff, but where do I sign?
Danger: The whole gambling thing is a microcosm of the actual Bachelor show. Line up twenty delicious morsels, lock the competitor in the bathroom while you set the stage, and watch as he creates mayhem in a drool covered shambles of perceived winners and losers and to hell with the consequences. Sure I played along, but I was there for the right reasons. Those Greenies brand treats are good for my teeth and gums, not to mention they aid in digestion.
Muddy: Danger you ignorant slut. Games aren’t about love. They’re about winners and losers. And people with boring lives who watch as the winners and losers lives shatter and combust into exotically dressed sobbing basket cases in the backs of limos. If this means I get to eat twenty-three Greenies every Saturday, game on.
Danger: But if you look at it from the non-teleological sense—
Muddy: Juan Pablo can’t spell teleological.
Danger: Ok, so we get a lot of treats. But how about the dynamic between Juan Pablo and Chris Harrison? Usually, he bro-bras it up and gets all shirtless and cozy with the bachelor. What was his beef-flavored issue with JP? What started out as mild confusion turned into Harrison using the Bachelor as a vehicle to ostracize Juan Pablo in front of the America that thought it adored him so much. The thing with Andi seemed like overkill.
Muddy: Or genius. Harrison gets a red-crayon about the prospect of the most successful season ever. Turns out Juan Pablo is a tool with the depth of a bird bath, and Harrison has to suck it up and make it seem salvageable. To use the lingo, he chucked Juan Pablo under the bus at the end of the day for the right reasons. And by my math, we’re about 188 cat treats fatter for the deal with two weeks to go. And we’re actually beating a few actual people who are probably reading blogs about all this crap as we communicate via a series of non-verbal cues accompanied by periodic vocalizations.
Danger: Where do we go from here?
Muddy: Well, I thought from the very beginning that if it all worked out you or I would win the Bachelor bracket and become famous. Maybe get showcased on MSN for all the losers who still use Hotmail to see after they logged off, then make a run of the talk shows, probably culminating in you peeing on that Hasselbeck lady from The View while I get scratched by Star Jones’s latest replacement.
Danger: Yeah, that was kind of my fantasy, too. Except in mine we were guest judges on Top Chef in an “eating off the kitchen floor” themed episode.
Muddy: Anyway, enough with that crap. I’m going to go knock some glasses off the counter in a totally nonchalant manner. Glad we could have this series of non-verbal cues accompanied by periodic vocalizations.
Danger: Yeah, me too. What are the odds Juan Pablo gets secret-double Womacked by Nikki and Clare?
Muddy: I got 25 Greenies says he doesn’t.
Danger: I’ll take that action.