It’s the middle of the night, I am on Maui and my blood is somewhere between 65 ad 87% mai tai, though that is not a scientific number. I am living in a world of helicopter rides, waterfalls, incessant boozing and finding love. I am on my honeymoon. That said, from our secret plantation style room in a bathroom that literally plays Hawaiian music on command, I set up a bathtub filled with rose petals and sprung for the ridiculously priced internet access at the Four Seasons so I could stream this week’s episode. Yes, the post is late like a girl finding out she is preggers, but let’s be honest. On Monday night I was riding a dolphin and harpooning swordfish to impress my wife (we sold them to pay for the internet access). So, from the middle of the night on my last mai tai, here is my review of week three. It is really sexy. You are welcome. Attribute it to the fact that I have been in a steam room over 11 times in the past 3 days.
I don’t recall much of a Brad introspection intro this week, which is fine because I more than made up for it. I snuck out to the croquet lawn overlooking the ocean and watched some dude in a skirt blow a conch shell (that isn’t sexual) and light a bunch of torches. I smoked a cigar and offered to move when an old, but hip in an all-linen-jumpsuit-sort-of-way French couple found my spot toting a bottle of wine and two glasses. I asked if the cigar smoke bothered me and they just mumbled and lit a joint. At the Four Seasons you can kill a man so long as you tip the groundscrew.
Country Girl had the first date and totally ruined any opportunity to talk shit about her bad singing due to her father dying story. Then Seal showed up and sang the only song I know he has written (although I feel like he sang some song that ran during the credits of a Disney film I saw at University Village at SC with a forty of OE). Frankly, the song is so good he gets to sleep with Heidi Klum and basically do nothing all day.
One thing that sucks about all the sad stories Brad is subjected to is the fact that Brad is really hard to watch hear a sad story. He stares at invisible gnomes on the ground and just says “please”, “sorry”, “I want you to” and “I want to hear it” in no particular order. It’s not that I don’t like the Trust Fund. It’s just that with all his therapy (cut to awkward foreign version of Chris Harrison playing the part of a therapist) the Trust Fund is so worried people won’t like him that he has absolutely no balls.
This brings me to Future Sex Tape (Michelle). If he had any balls he’d tell her that the only time she is to address him is at night after she has put on her make up and eaten her Valium. It’s like she was the woman who survived in the most recent Saw film and instead of going to the cops, just rolled to ABC to join the cast of the Bachelor. I can only imagine how many dudes have hooked up with her and have to watch this weekly and relive the six weeks that followed where she said things like “that kiss was forever” and “do you know how easily I could kill you?” and “I get farty when I eat sashimi”. This girl is the reason men stop chasing that girl at the club. You know who you are and you know if you’ve chased them. It all goes to hell when the lights go on.
Emily had her date and finally told Trust Fund about her racer husband who died and her child. I’m leaving it alone. She is really hot, she has the best name ever, she is really nice. She’s one of the rare loopholes in the matrix. I just hope she doesn’t turn nuts in three weeks because the producers mess with her mind or Chris Harrison slows feeds her angel dust and forces her to stare into his paisley ties.
Side note, where was Harrison this episode? Oh yeah. Putting on a slightly fat suit and being that therapist guy.
The group date was completely stupid. They filmed some action movie. The only cool part was to see how good at kicking ass the Undertaker was. I knew she was good at working with dead bodies. Didn’t know she was so good at making them. Is it weird I found her more attractive when I saw that she might be a proficient murderer? I’m drunk in Hawaii.
Hayden Panettiscary did a great acting job in pulling her fangs out and peacing out on the show. She can say this was cuz of Emily and her good heart. In reality, she needs a dude who is down. Trust Fund just stares down at invisible gnomes when given bad news. Again, is it weird she was more attractive when I saw she was peacing out? One bad call though was the fangs because next time she tries to meet a good dude, they’ll go back home after a hot date on Ventura Blvd. and she’ll be like let’s talk feelings and he’ll be like get those fangs out from the Bachelor and let’s get weird.
So in the end he cut some girl I never bothered to know who she was and Weird Mouth, who I wish stuck around because I was definitely going to have a lot of material there. In the end, could you marry someone who made such weird mouth gestures? Imagine her at 75 asking you to pass the grapefruit. Look, a lot of messed up stuff happens in life and we all deal with what comes along, hell I’ve had cancer twice. All I am saying is if you can avoid a potential mate who looks like she is speaking for some unseen ventriloquist puppet when she speaks, shouldn’t you? That’s not one of life’s sudden pitfalls, that’s just ignoring the obvious.
Real quick while I am here. Tomorrow I go to Lanai and you won’t here from me unless I catch more swordfish and sell them for more internet. I don’t know if there are bears there, so wish me luck. Los Angeles calls to me from across the Pacific, but I think I may stay here eating all kinds of exotic plants, fish and animals and driving a beat up red Jeep around like I joined a sorority (remind me to tell you about my wife egging me on to find Jaws to check out the big waves, I almost broke an axel because I am a city boy, but a handsome one at that).
Turned out today was my last day to renew my domain name. WHAAAAT? Luckily I did this poolside. There will be more Lost Angeles. You are welcome universe. Now I am going to bed in a pit of lychees and pineapple pillows. I’m so postmodern.