Tuesday, February 22, 2011

2/21--Why Yes, Strange Man I've Just Met, You May Certainly Marry My Daughter

"My Daddy Lives in a Really Big House! Nahhhhhhhhh!"

ZipperRipper Chantal prepares a statue of Brad Womack to meet her loaded parents.

Welcome to Week 8 of this season--otherwise known as the "Daughter Auction". This is the episode where Brad Womack travels the country and goes a courtin' and gets to meet the families who were dumb enough--or desperate enough--to unload their daffy daughters that they let them go make fools of themselves on national television to try and land a Texas bar owner with a spotty record in the commitment area. These same parents will welcome the Bachelor into their homes and practically beg Brad to take the dead weight off their hands. I'm waiting for the season where they actually catch some dad down on his knees and pleading, "Good god, can't you help a man out here?!" Ah, Women's Rights. But this season we're in for a break; many years the families are crazier and sleazier than their kids. Not this time. 'Ol Brad Womack not only managed to meet some nice folks, but he even stumbled into what looked like a gold mine or two while he was at it. And truthfully, I'm just being a dick...mostly. The families were cool. The women were cool. It's the producers who suck. So what's new?

Baron O'Brien and Squire Womack

Brad starts the episode out hanging around on a freezing balcony navel gazing about the women while wearing some dorky English Racing hat. That looked organic, didn't it? Brad normally wears a English Racing hat? It looked like Queen Elizabeth wearing a Stetson. Anyway, once Brad recaps why he can't dump any of the women he's going to, it's off to Mercer Island, Washington to meet this season's nemesis of his wardrobe: ZipperRipper Chantal. She awaits him in some scenic park as Brad drives up and they do the run and hug. Brad gives us a ominous-sounding PI: "So much of her is perfect, but I have concerns. I do not need a roller coaster in my life." Uh-huh. Settling in on a picnic table, Chantal fills him in on what's to come. She wants to run by her house, a mere 4 blocks from her folks, and introduce Brad to her menagerie. This was an odd date for these two. Considering the locales, and purpose of the trip, this was the 1st time they didn't look tempted to rip each other's clothes off. As they sat in the park discussing their future home in Austin and Chantal's current one around the corner, Brad didn't look fully recovered from last weeks Anguilla assault. Truthfully, he looked so stoic I was waiting for a pigeon to come perch on the top of his head or take a crap on him. Chantal, however, dropped into her giggly girl mode and before long he is laughing along playfully with her. They leave for her digs and Brad gets his first opportunity to raise an eyebrow, "Wow. Nice place." It is. Chantal must be the best paid Executive Assistant on the West Coast. Must be nice to have Daddy's Sugar Palace to crash in. She leads him indoors where they are greeted by two gray blobs she assures him are cats, and one nauseating little dog. Now, I'm a dog guy--love 'em, but is it some kind of requirement that at least one girl in the final 4 has to own some little piece of shit dog? How come no woman ever opens the door and the Bachelor gets floored by some gigantic Marmaduke? Chantal tells us the odd-looking little thing is named "Boca." Brad looks at it like he wants to step on it. You'll forgive me if I don't have the Make or Model of this particular animal, but it appeared to be some kind of hybrid. The only thing I'm sure about--besides the fact it was nauseating and dressed in doggy clothes--is that it probably cost more than my car. Same thing with the cats; they didn't look garden variety either. Chantal is flashing the animal bling. They have a seat on her expensive couch and talk about how she and the animals are a package deal. Brad nods ruefully and says he'll have to buy a new house. They then do something really odd for this show: they actually have a real-sounding conversation. They talk about limited closet space. Huh? Since when are we ever shown any mundane conversations about real life? Brad plays with the little dog and they have a talk like two people preparing to shack-up. Weird. They finally dump the animals and head over to her folks' house, or should I say Palace. As they walk down through the gate that leads to the front door, Brad's eyebrow disappears into his hairline, "Wow!" Wow, is right. This message is for all the people on the internet insisting that Chantal's dad is just pimping her on TV to sell a few more cars: suck it! This guy obviously has more money in his couch cushions than I do in my bank account. They walk up to a front door that probably cost more than my entire house and go inside. Greeting them is Chantal's sister. Huh? Her what? Her mom!? Yeowza! Holy crap, Mr. Womack; plastic surgery notwithstanding, this appears to be a rather deep gene pool you're fishing in here!

Ok, that's it! I'm done. I've tried to be selfless, but I have failed. Cupids and hearts, cupids and hearts--I was blind but now I can see. It was meant to be--Team Bremily all the way! Go on, Brad, dump her! Dump her right here in her daddy's fancy digs! Go on. Yes, do it now. I'll wait by the door. (Turning about and doffing my ostrich-plumed pirate chapeau), "Mrs. O'Brien, allow me to introduce myself; I am Frederick J. Barbarossa, humble ship's captain and occasional scribe, at your service. Pirate? Ho, no. Pirate is such a strong word. I prefer the term 'opportunistic entrepreneur', much like you dear husband. Yes, I'm afraid it's true, Brad is on his way to break your darling little girl's heart. Yes, he's certainly no changed man in my book! As a matter of fact I think we can both agree that he's quite the douche bag, if you'll pardon my French? No, but I'm afraid I have even worse news. You see, there's some sleaze bag named Mike Fleiss on the way to your house as we speak, and I'm afraid he means to sign your lovely daughter up as the next Bachelorette. Now, Mrs. O'Brien--may I call you Bille Jo? You see this silver-tongued devil means to put a hoard of fancy-knickered, Nancy-boys onto your daughter. Oh, no, no, you wouldn't want to do that. Chantal is a lonely young woman and the chance to maybe meet some decent fella hiding among the potted plants this Fleiss-devil will try and sic on her is too great to pass up. Now I know a way to circumvent that devil but good. You see, Chantal needs someone she can trust hanging out there with her. That's right--you. You can stay there the whole time and vet these losers to make sure she gets a good one. You and Chantal can spend your days lounging about the pool in your bikinis comparing notes..."

All right, honey, I'll stop. Let go of my ear! Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yeah, Brad crashes into the O'Brien mansion and is met by one hottie-assed MILF of a mom, some tall, strapping lad and finally Baron O'Brien himself. Mike O'Brien takes in a deep breath and smells, like always, the powerful fragrance of money, and then eyes Brad Womack with a steely gaze. Brad shrinks about a foot. The Baron hauls Brad aside for a man-to man and these two quickly figure out that if Chantal and Brad don't make it, that Mike and Brad would make a mighty cute couple. They trade tales of growing up with nothing and making a bundle. The Baron even takes Brad into the stadium-sized arboretum to show him some giant-assed statue he has. Then they tour the wine cellar arm in arm and Brad stashes that bottle of Two-Buck Chuck he'd brought along as a gift. Before Mike and Brad get carried away with each other, they all have sit down and Brad immediately rats out Chantal for popping him in his hairy mug the second she met him. General hilarity ensues. Finally, the ZipperRipper and the ZipperShredder go have a cry fest while Brad and Mike adjourn into the kitchen for Mike's blessing. The Baron quickly proves that he has better writers than Fleiss: "I don't know when we'll see you again if ever, but if the time comes and this all works out, you two certainly have my blessings." Unsolicited, Brad rings one up, and then kicks the shit out of himself for not taking Chantal on that shopping spree instead of the mortuary chick. The food that piece of shit dog eats will probably make that Bally's handbag look like a real bargain. Chantal walks Brad out and he tells her, "I don't want to leave!" (Who the hell would?) as the baron puts the exclamation on the evening: "Brad is sincere; a great man." Date, and Stephen Bradley Picklesimer Womack: done.

Disconnected Along the Border

Madawaska, Maine: Ashley Sherbert greets Brad in her freezing small town and takes him to dinner at the local French-speaking greasy spoon. Sherbert bee bops around with her mosquito-like energy and offers him a local delicacy called, "The Colon Blaster." No, not really. It was some French-sounding thing that I can't pronounce or type, but the meaning was the same. It was a bowl of french fries topped in gravy and cheese. "Would you be into that," she asks. Brad frowns, "Uh, yeah." Brad, who doesn't look like he's consumed a carb since adolescence, cringes as the waitress brings the dish to the table. "You like?" Brad stares at her and decides to try out some Frenchy-talk, "Uhhhh, si!" Quite the cosmopolitan is our Bradley. The waitress shrugs and drops the fries and gravy-cheese on the table and departs. Brad stares at it like it's a giant bowl of horse squeeze, but reluctantly picks up his fork. Sherbert stops him and digs her finger into the morass and offers him a gravy cheese fry. Swallowing with disgust, Brad open his mouth as she drops it in. "I saw your crown," she reminds us she's a Dentist. Shame she wasn't a doctor. Brad's eyes bug out and he goes into instant carb-shock. By the time they can roll the cameras again, its time to leave che greasy spoon.They gab about the need to reassure as Ashley takes him shopping for lobster and they stop off at a "honor-system" veggie stand. Brad, being a Texas redneck looks genuinely happy to meet French-speaking Yankee rednecks. It's definitely his kind of town. "I can see myself living here." Uh-huh. They arrive at the modest Sherbert home and we quickly see where Ashley gets her high-energy chipperness. The family is cool, but borders on spastic. The real surprise is her sister, Chrystie, who's pretty damn hot but covered in tattoos. Now, I've confessed to liking them on women, but this gal looked like a billboard. They all eat lobster before Ashley's step-dad takes a Brad aside for the point of the visit: to let Brad know Ashley is going nowhere until she finishes dental school. Doubts now abound. Her feelings, his feelings--no one has a clue what they feel. Dad tells Brad the thought of kids might scare Ashley. I'm surprised she even got a rose. This one isn't long for this TV world. Date over.

Brad Gets Mortified

Speaking of people not long for this TV world....Brad now heads to the hometown of the hottest undertaker I've ever seen--Chico, California--home of Shawntel Munster. For the third straight visit, Brad loves her town. He steps into the creepy Munster Family Mausoleum--cue creepy organ music. It's gonna' be that kind of date. Why? Is Shawntel some kind of death-obsessed freak? Is Brad all into lying on embalming tabbles for kicks? No, it's cause the producers are douche bags, that's why. Brad hugs the hottie Munster and tells her how beautiful it is around these parts. "Oh, wait till you see the rest," she says innocently, pointing further into the mausoleum. Dial tone. C'mon, Shawntel, we all know you're intelligent. Lose the brainfart sweetie; he's talking about your town, not your creepy funeral parlor. She tours him around the business, including the crematorium and then hauls him into the embalming room. Speaking of dial tones, Brad's all over that: "Uhhhhhh, ok." She suggests he lay on her embalming table and starts playing with some evil-looking tools of the trade. Brad grimaces like he's holding his ass checks clenched so he doesn't drop one on the floor. Finally bowing to producer-pressure, he lies down while she hovers over him like Dr. Frankenstein, complete with surgical mask. Brad visibly shivers and I'm expecting that Madison chick to come hopping out of a closet at him with her fangs bared. Lovely visual as Shawntel gets waaaayyyy too graphic in her dissertation about how she drains stiffs. Mercifully, they are allowed to leave...and after about 5 uncomfortable minutes, Brad looks like he wishes he was back on the embalming table. They go and meet her family and I see Pops Munster is on the early embalming plan. But as dead as he looks, he still possesses the power to weave a guilt trip better than my mother. Shawntel confesses she is deep into the Bachelor bubble and is just crazy about Brad. Pops' pinched face screws up like he just sucked a lemon. "But I always meant for you to carry on when I retire?" You did? Then why the hell did you agree to meet some Reality TV Star who would haul her to Austin? Brad squirms--its Austin or nada. Pops takes Shawntel aside and pulls out the big guns of guilt: "Shawntel, you certainly have my blessing to leave with this hairy-faced, double-dealing man who is far too old for you, but I just want you to know that the entire town of Chico, California will be nothing more than smoldering ruins if you do." Shawntel wanders back in and Pops smiles at Brad: "Well, you certainly have my blessings, you bastard. Kindly go ahead and take her so I can go jump into a freshly dug grave. Have no fear, Shawntel, I'll have some other undertaker who actually cares about this community embalm me." Brad beats feet in a hurry. Date over.

The Ricky and Ricki Show

That's right--Ricky and Ricki. Brad and Nascar Emily? Eh, not so much. But I don't care. I'm Team Bremily now anyway. I just want to see Chantal and her MILF mom next season...and the Baron look down his rich-assed nose at some quivering douche. So, cupids and hearts, cupids and hearts! Brad gets to meet little Ricky-tick. Never saw that coming. Hope he was happy with that too, cause she is the only family member who could make it. For some odd reason, none of Emily's family even show up and we're never told why. That's a first. Anyway, Brad duckfoots his way into a park carrying a kite and meets Emily and her 5 year-old daughter Ricki--hereafter known as Ricky-tick--which makes the kid sound like a bug. Odd nickname, but whatever. The poor little girl is shy. Some people make a big deal out of the fact that the poor kid hid from Brad or ignored him altogether. First of all, what 5 year-old would relax with 20 sleazy producers and a camera crew sticking boom mikes into her face and trying to coerce her? Besides, we have trained any female under the age of 21 to treat any man they don't know as a potential rapist. Of course the poor child was scared! She hides behind her mom like any normal 5 year-old under the circumstances and leers suspiciously at Brad like he's Chester the Molester. He pulls out the kite and gives her some space and finally they fly kites together just like he did with her momma. They head back to Emily's and I'm relieved to see that Emily is the best paid, 24 year-old, "Hospital Event Planner" in the nation. Cool, Brad; gold mine part duex. Touring some of that Hendrick's Money Castle, Brad plays clown to get Ricki-tick to like him. They play board games and other highly romantic things and finally Emily puts the Tick to bed. The little one hands him a hand-drawn picture that still adorns his refrigerator (Hmmm?) before she heads off for the night and Emily tells Brad she wants him to tuck her in. She did? Conveniently, Emily tells Brad she's already asleep as he arrives at her bedside and he gets stiffed again. Finally, they head downstairs for some adult time and just when I think this is going to get good, Brad pulls a wimp-out worthy of a full Mesnick, with a slice of Weatherman vagina-whine on the side. "Your daughter is upstairs and I could kiss you. But I'm just not." Emily stares at him like she wonders if he's gay. "Hey. If this works out, she's always going to be up there?" Truer words. But Brad pulls an all-time pussy choke and is about to leave before she corrals him by the door and forces him. Jesus, Brad; John Wayne just sat up in his grave and cacked up a furball. Awkward, and embarrassing. So this is the epic lovestory, eh? Hey, fine with me; cupids and hearts, cupids and hearts! C'mon Chantal, and bring your mom along with you! Team Bremily all the way! Date over.

Dump 'Em Danno!

The wingman manages to bestir his lazy ass, and Harrison emerges in week 8 to finally do his job. Keep phoning 'em in, Harrison. He and Brad do one of those lame, generic recaps that tells you what you just saw, before he heads out to line 'em up for duck hunting season.

1) Ashley Sherbet: French-speaking rednecks from Maine. Who wouldda thunk it?

2) Nascar Emily: Cupids and hearts, cupids and hearts. Go to South Africa, Emily. Brad will molest you there.

The wingman reappears from the mists: "Surely you saw this one coming, folks? With the way Brad mispronounces the names of the two Chantal/Shawntels, you knew this showdown was coming. Drag it out Brad...when you're ready."

Brad: "Shawn-tel/tal....................................................O!"

The ZipperRipper strides forward in a horrid red dress and funnel-cake hairdo. Damn, did the Money Shot fix her hair? Hideous.

Dumped: Shawn-tel-tal..............................................Munster! No kidding. I'm glad I took my blood pressure medicine for this one. Shawntel leaves and is classy to the hilt. Make a fine Bachelorette, but probably not to be with that profession.

Brad re-enters and toasts as they head to South Africa to pester some defenseless animals. The Pirate will be there.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

2/14--Happy Valentines Day! It's the Return of the 2007, Texas Brad-Bot

Before I dive into an episode that reminded me of having my molars extracted with fire tongs, I promised last week to address the various scandals about the Bachelor floating around the net and in the tabloids. If you are not familiar with these scandals, well, there are a ton of them: Chantal sleeps around; Michelle sleeps around with married men; Brad sleeps with Chris Harrison, etc. Let me sum up my thoughts on all of these in total: Yawn! Ok, now that that's out of the way, let's move down to the Caribbean Island of Anguilla and find out what Brad is doing besides sleeping with Chris Harrison. This was a particularly grueling night. When Brad wasn't trying to bore me to death with three bloodless dates, he was handling the remaining women with the deftness of an iron pizza pan. Then he shut down altogether and made like the Brad of yore. But before we get there, I've got some good news: those damn text messages have stopped, at least for now. Perhaps switching my ISP did the trick. We might never know.

The Wingman Appears... Signaling 6 More Weeks of Winter

Well 'lo and behold, who have we here? Yes, Chris Harrison finally emerges from whatever cocktail lounge he's been hiding in all season, and greets the women outside their new digs in Anguilla. The wingman comes sauntering up looking crisp and rested (as he should), but he ain't foolin' me. I can see that under his button-up dress casual the sure signs of a wetsuit. Harrison describes a 4-date week on the horizon--3, 1-on-1 dates, and 1, group date from hell. He drops the card and departs; the snorkel bouncing in his back pocket and the unmistakable slap of his swim fins as he heads off. It sucks to be Harrison. Shawntel Munster hops up, reads the date card and calls out Nascar Emily for some 1-on-1 action.

This Date Sponsored by Ambien

This was one of the stranger dates I have ever seen on this show...which is fitting, because Nascar Emily is one of the weirder contestants they've ever had. I've spent weeks trying to figure her out. Something about her just never fit. Have you noticed that she never speaks with the other women? Every time the girls are around cutting up in some tomfoolery or talking about who is the next to be sent home that Emily is never seen uttering a word? She speaks in an occasional Private Interview, or very occasionally with Brad, but that's all. If she's seen speaking with another girl, it's just her sitting there nodding seriously while some pain in the ass like Michelle whines about something. Emily has zero interaction with the other women. She just sits there like a marble angel, if she's seen at all. It's been driving me nuts. But I think I've finally figured it out and cracked the case: this chick is dead. She's some airy-fairy spirit Fleiss has hired to come floating onto the set to do a Private Interview every now and then. She may even be CGI. Regardless of her mortality or lack thereof, Brad comes lurking into the women's digs, ogles them all in the pool, and then spirits Nascar Emily away and to a helicopter. I was kinda' hoping she would fly outside it, but no dice. He puts her in the chopper and they fly around so the camera crews can pay back the Anguilla Chamber of Commerce for the freebies, and then they head to some sandbar, fittingly called "Sandy Island." Damn, these Anguillans are original. Anyway, the chopper dumps them on the sandbar with a picnic basket full of booze and departs. Now what happens next? Well, it's all in the eye of the beholder, isn't it? But since this is my blog, I'm beholden. So, to call this date riveting, would be an insult to a rivet. Dig this intense talk:

B: "I like it out here."
E: "Me too."
E: "What are you thinking?"
B: "It's a really cool view."

They sit there with an invisible six foot-thick wall between them and make rumblin', bumblin' and stumblin' small talk. She finally takes the hint as he stumbles around and moves forward for a few tepid pecks. They escape the sandbar somehow and Brad takes her for dinner on the beach. They sip some white wine and exchange a few 'amazings' and she starts talking about her daughter and Brad asks about meeting her. Emily sighs loudly. She remains non-committal so Brad presses and then gushes about breaking the rules and he assures her she gets a rose at the next ceremony and will definitely be going to Charlotte. She just smiles and refuses to commit despite his rogue rule-breaking. (According to the previews, he needn't have worried.) They head to the surf's edge and make out a little. "My kiss with Emily was more than just a kiss." Ok. Yeah, I know; I'm sure Emily's legions of fans are swearing they just saw the second coming of Romeo and Juliet--and maybe they did. Maybe this is Brad Womack's and Emily Maynard's idea of love. Well if that's what we just witnessed then this is love shared by two extremely boring people--even by Shakespeare's standards. Some are undoubtedly seeing
cupids dancing through the meadow. I saw what looked like concrete set. Respectful admiration is one thing, but zero passion is another. Some will cry that this is Southern Reserve; after all, these are two people from well South of the Mason-Dixon Line. My take on that is simple: the wench queen is a South Georgia girl--born and bred. She and her family are so reserved that for the first year I was with her, I thought they were physiologically incapable of farting. (I have since learned differently.) And there my thoroughly unspoiled southern belle sat last night on my right like always, watching Brad and Emily's weird mating ritual and suddenly blurted, "Oh, go on and kiss your sister, why don't you!" The House of Barbarossa rests. Mercifully, date over.

The Munster Hangs Around

While Brad and Emily were trying to put me to sleep, a date card arrived back at the girl's digs and it's announced that Shawntel Munster will get the next 1-on-1. I've liked this girl all season; she's down to earth, fun, and shockingly normal, especially for this show. Brad meets her with a bike beside him and takes her on a tour around the local markets of Anguilla. Showing her place in the pecking order, she gets no helicopter, no secluded sandbar or yacht, but she seems to have a good time anyway. Truthfully, as robotic as Brad becomes from here on out, he appeared to have about a thousand times better and more relaxed date with her than he did with Emily...and a hell of a lot better than he will have later. They go to the market, get some love advice from some old woman who must be a local character, and they go have a boring picnic. Brad is hyper-relaxed, but in truth, there is nothing going on here, at least for him. She tells him she is falling in love with him and he acts like she offered him a coupon for half off on his next pizza instead of her heart. As night falls, he takes her out to a beach bungalow to have dinner. Here we find out just how little they have talked. Shawntel speaks about her family and then asks him: "So, your parents aren't still together?" Brad has pummeled us with stories of his deadbeat dad. Clearly, Madam Munster is not in the loop. But to be fair, he speaks openly and honestly with her...like you would with a friend. Brad gets a little drunk and then hits on her like any guy would as the rain starts to fall. Cue music and kissing. Brad hints that more surprises are to come. Suddenly musicians and revelers come out of the dark under the gazebo and Brad tells her: "We're about to have a concert with Bankie Banx." Cool! Who the hell is Bankie Banx? Brad reads off a cue card and lets us know. "Bankie Banx is probably the most famous singer on Anguilla--maybe the entire Caribbean!" Isn't that a bit like being proclaimed the Heavyweight Champion of Luxembourg? Regardless, Banx comes out onstage and why am I not the least bit surprised? He's a moth-eaten old Rastafarian who smiles at them and even through my TV I can smell the rum-soaked reefer smoke. The band strikes up some reggae and Brad and Shawntel dance around a bit and gush about each other in Private Interviews. They ditch the world-renowned Bankie Banx and Brad hauls her into the surf so I can ogle the enormous tattoo on her lower back. Wow, that's a biggie. Hot too. Hey, this is my blog and I like 'em on women, so tough. Date over.

Bony Britt's Waterloo

While Brad and Shawntel having been hanging around getting a buzz from the smoke coursing off of Bankie Banx, a date card has arrived back at the digs letting Bony Britt know her moment has finally arrived. Britt pretties herself up as Ashley Sherbert happily assures her that the coming date with "their" boyfriend will go just fine. "There's no rose on these dates, so you're sure of coming home!" Thanks for the foreshadowing, Ashley. Naturally this means Britt is a goner, and quickly. I'd followed along with my teeth bared for this one. It was so obvious he was gonna' clobber her out of existence...but once they got on the yacht and she sat with him with a bikini on, my snarky sadism subsided. I had seen her in clothing when I dubbed her "Bony", but when I saw her in a bathing suit, it didn't seem so funny anymore. Oh, don't get me wrong; the snarker in my blood was hurtling through my mind like lightning as one after another fish-in-a-barrel joke raced through my mind--Britt jumped off the cliff and made a splash in the water like a sole raindrop falling from the sky; with no splash, a 9.5 from the Chinese judge--but the honest truth, in my opinion, is that this young woman has an eating disorder, and Reality Show or not, I'm not going to make fun of her for that. There was nothing between them and Brad dumped her--date over.

Tolling the Bell of a Man's Apocalypse

You see? This is the reason I like Brad Womack so much: he's as dumb as I am. He actually let some producer-demon convince him that taking three highly competitive, sleep-deprived and alcohol-soaked women out in bikinis for a competitive photo shoot for Sports Illustrated's Swimsuit Edition would be a barrel of laughs. He barges into their rooms at 2:00 in the morning with a camera crew and lights blazing to wake them up. The women glare blearily at him. I'm sure Brad was happy they don't let these women carry firearms cause one of them would have shot him dead. Brad gushes in a P.I. "These women don't know it, but I've arranged for them do something millions of women dream of: pose for Sports Illustrated!" Uh, no. No, Brad; about a hundred avaricious super-model types dream of doing this, the other 180 million women in the country cringe at the thought of someone pointing a camera at them when they're wearing a bikini. Dumbass. With total disregard for the personalities involved, Brad leads them stumbling across the way to a bungalow where a hoard of make-up and hair people await them. Informed they will be posing in bikinis, Michelle, being one of those avaricious super-model types, raises an eyebrow and smirks; the other two, however...? Ashley Sherbert dons a red bikini and shows that she has been blessed with former Bachelorette Jillian Harris' door mouse metabolism and hasn't gained so much as an ounce despite being the biggest drinker in the lot. But that doesn't mean she's happy. Covering her top with her hands, she bemoans the fact that compared to her two surgically-altered friends, her tits are pimples. But the real sound of impending nightmare chimes when ZipperRipper Chantal speaks while getting her hair done: "I feel like a lard butt!" Whoops. True, Chantal has succumbed to what normal women do on this show and put on the "Bachelor 10" from all the laying around eating and being on an all-alcohol diet. But it's what she says next that makes my ears ring. "I...I feel fat today." Oh, shit. I've been married often enough and long enough to hear the tolling of the apocalypse bell now. It sounds to me like on top of everything else, "Aunt Flow" has come for her monthly visit. Brad, you're a dead man. Marching along in clueless oblivion, Brad leads the women down to the beach like the Pied Piper on the way to meet his own firing squad. The S.I. people arrive, the cameras come out, and here we go. God only knows how long they were at this or in what order it occurred, but what we were shown is that Sherbert went first. Buoyed by several shots of "liquid backbone" she jumps around with her vivacious energy while Brad stands there with the other two looking like Gomer Duckfoot watching. The S.I. photog skeeze promptly talks Ashley out of her top. She whips off the red band-aid and places some conch shells over her A cups. The ZipperRipper goes next and...Gulp. Ok, I'll say it quietly, in a hushed tone, because you know I mean it: Argh! Chantal pouts at the photographer and Bachelor 10 or no, his camera practically catches fire. Then she also pulls off her top and unleashes her cannon shells. Brad, fearing his cute little boat shorts will spontaneously combust, turns his head aside. "Oh, oh, ok." The Money Shot sneers in a private interview that Ashley and Chantal are easily led, and she has too many morals for that, so her top will stay on. To celebrate her advanced morality, Michelle gets Brad down on the sand and recreates a scene out of From Here to Eternity, but instead of passionate kissing, she dry humps him into the sand like they're filming Shaving Ryan's Privates instead. Ring. Ring Ring. Chantal and Ashley turn away, "Why are we watching this?!" Brad's shellshocked face pops up in another P.I. "I shouldn't have done that! Chantal and Ashley are going to be pissed and they have every right to be!" Heh, ya think? Brad finally gets them up under some gazebo later in the afternoon judging by the sun, and they all pour in some drinks that look like cucumber margaritas, but they must have been tasty because they all look to have had a gallon each. Brad stands around like the unfortunate brother of King Midas--everything he touches turns to shit--call him King Feces--and tries to halt the meltdown. He turns this way and that, confronted by an angry, sunbaked, exhausted, and drunk woman no matter which way he looks. Sensing belatedly that he's standing in a live bear trap with no escape, he shuts down like the coil on a 40 year-old refrigerator. That, ladies and gentleman, will be the end of Mr. Womack's emotions for the night. The Brad-droid from 2007 is back in all his glory. (I'm sure Nascar Emily's fans are sure he shut down cause he's met his One and doesn't want to deal with these whiny bitches. Maybe they're right.) He then clinically examines each woman like they're some strange new family of fungi he's recently discovered. Dragging a thoroughly bombed Sherbert aside, he pats her head while she blubbers drunkenly. Sensing distressed emotion from the strange creature, the Brad-bot goes and procures the rose. Chantal and Michelle, who are laying on some bamboo mat under the gazebo and fighting passing out, hear his gears clicking and whirring as he tries to slip in and get the rose. Caught in the act, they glare at him with daggers of disgust. Ring. Ring. Did the producer's order this? I would have eaten the rose, thorns and all, before I handed it out in that atmosphere. He slips away and approaches the soused Sherbert. She starts begging drunkenly, "Don't send me home! Don't send me home!" Hey Ashley, I know you're hammered and all, but he has the rose--relax. He serves up the flower and then they head back. He pokes his noggin around the edge of the gazebo and looks at his two remaining hell cats, "Now...now comes the uncomfortable part." Both women turn their heads away and glare past him without a word. Brad mumbles and stumbles a bit and Chantal finally succumbs. She slaps her hands over her eyes and bawls like a toddler. The Brad-droid senses a problem. "Would...would you walk with me?" She shakes her head but never speaks; her hands held over her face as tears pour out between her fingers. It gets so bad even Sherbert and the Money Shot take the hint and vacate. Brad lays down beside her while she bawls and tries to impose some Vulcan-like logic on the situation: "I have very specific reasons for handing these roses out. You're trying to judge what you would do in my shoes."
"Yes, I am!" she fires back. "There are three of us; if you can't pick me over the other two, maybe you should just send me home!"
Many people take this as bitchy whining. I don't. If I were in a contest over one gal with two other guys and she handed one of them a gift I didn't get, I'd take it as a sign I needed to hit the bricks. He keeps trying to talk with her, but she snatches her hand away from him angrily and then gets up.
"Are we ok?"
She crosses her fingers, "Sure."
"Should we take a walk?"
"Let's call it a day." And she hugs him coldly before she turns and heads toward the surf. Brad, sunbaked, exhausted, and probably drunk, collapses into a chair like he's been beaten with a ball bat. When he does manage to stand up, he staggers away down the beach with an ungainly gait like C-3PO with sand wedged into his gyros.
Date, and Brad for this week: Done.

The Wingman Got Dressed Up For This?

The women arrive for the Cocktail Party barefoot? What the hell was that about? They finally get a night where their feet won't kill them standing there for hours and it turns out they won't need it. Before the women can even taste any alcohol, Brad gets cornered by the wingman and he tells Harrison, "I want to break some rules here. I don't want a Cocktail Party."
Harrison is horrified. "What? Are you sure? I got dressed in a suit."
"Yes, I'm sure."
"But, but, but look; I've got my cheese knife and champagne glass all ready for tinging?"
But no dice. Brad has seen enough. Anymore crying and his circuits will melt. Harrison mopes his way up to the women, absolutely bummed that his half his signature moves have been snatched away from him, "Brad doesn't realize I left a Charter in the middle of the ocean to be here and has decided he doesn't need a Cocktail Party. C'mon."
He lines then up and here comes Brad looking like the walk of the living dead.

Already safe: Ashley Sherbert--drunk out of her gourd but we're going to her hometown.
1) Nascar Emily--she floats over, flutters her angel wings and accepts the rose before vanishing in a wisp of smoke. Her supporters, "The Pit Crew" all stand and cheer.
2) Shantel Munster--The Mortician-friend scores a hometown, but previews make it seem Brad is creeped out when he meets Uncle Herman and Aunt Lily at the parlor.

The wingman re-enters, glares at Brad and points at the rose and barks: "Can you count?" and stalks off angrily.

3) ZipperRipper Chantal--looked half ready to bawl and half-ready to head home.

Cut: Brit earlier, and the Money Shot--thank you! The editors actually manage a miracle that has escaped them all season: Michelle is shown departing without a word. Yeah, right. Anyway, next week is hometown fun! See ya then.

Monday, February 7, 2011

2/7--Down And Out In Costa Rica

Before I get going this week, a quick 'thank you' to all who have commented on the blog. The feedback helps immensely knowing that some people are enjoying reading. A special shout out to the folks over at Joker's Updates, who have been very nice in their comments, as well as the usual gang at Misfits, who have been supportive of the Blast for several years now. If you want to leave a comment, just click on the link at the bottom. It only takes a minute and the support is really appreciated. Oh, and before we take off to hot, sweaty, rainy Costa Rica, I have to let you know that those irritating text messages will not stop. I even changed my ISP to a mi-fi hotspot and still they come crashing through the blog. I appreciate your patience, but we are just gonna' have to deal with it. Ok, onto last night.

*Beep! No worries this week, hon. This was one of our magical ones! And thank you for the flowers! Ur so sweet!!!!!

Let's Sweat Until Our Too Tight Clothing Sticks To Our Bods

Brad starts us off with a lengthy soliloquy about how much bigger a douche ba...I mean just how much better a man he is, as he wanders around some product placement lodge gimme in balmy Costa Rica. Seriously though, I like the guy; can't help it. But boy was he one down and out dude last night. He's stuck in a tropical paradise with 8 hot babes--ok, make that 6--but anyway, hot women and an all expenses paid opportunity to whore around and the guy acted like he needed a Prozac patch last night. True, until he rids himself (and us) of the high maintenance maggot, Michelle Money, he's got it coming to him. Unfortunately, that means coming at us. But the good news is that the producer's have decided to bring her forward to show Brad some of the double-barreled 'bitch' we have be seeing in every private interview with her all along. True, she's a paid actress hamming it up for the producer-slime, but I'm ready for them to give her her check and let her be on her way.

A lightning quick intro and we see Brad standing around in a too tight polo shirt trying not to sweat in the 110% humidity. Fat chance. The women's plane lands and we see Ashley Sherbert predict she is willing to get down and dirty with Brad in the jungle. Really? Don't you need five minutes alone with him for that? She vanished this episode as all the attention danced about between ZipperRipper Chantal and the ever dramatic Money Shot. The women pull up to the resort in a jeep and...they let Michelle drive? Whose malfunction was responsible for that choice? I'd be terrified to let her near the wheel of anything. Anyway, they do a quick commercial for The Springs Resort & Spa and then hustle over to meet Brad. He's standing out back, the beads of perspiration soaking through his shirt, and he gives them the tour. As has been the case this season, it's up to Brad to do the explaining and deliver the first date card because the wingman is down at the Resorts bar and probably already loaded. Nascar Emily, looking like someone finally convinced her to scrape off a few pounds of the make-up she normally wears, snatches up the card and calls out the ZipperRipper for her second one-on-one. This gives Alli Booty a chance to whine that she hasn't had a one-on-one with Brad yet. Don't worry, dear, it's coming...like a thrown spear coming right for the side of your head, it's coming.

I'm Screwin' in the Rain! Just Screwin' in the Raaaaiin!!

Michelle heard Chantal's name called and hustles off for her first bitch-moment of the night: "I don't know why Chantal's name was on the date card." Uhhhh, cause he likes her? More than you. "I hope she gets attacked by monkeys. Or apes." Ok, enough with this chick. I'm skipping her P.I.'s for the rest of the night. See you at the waterfall, you slag. Anyway, Brad takes Chantal to a helicopter and flies her into the middle of the jungle for some zip-lining. Way to change it up Fleiss. And it rains. Which is always seems to do when these two are together. They zipline all over the jungle and Brad tells us how happy he is. But the good part comes later, when we see this season's fortitude challenge acted out again; namely, can Brad get within five feet of this babe without his zipper exploding? As night falls, they sit down on the river's edge to enjoy a luau-style dinner. They haven't even opened the wine when the rain starts to fall again. Running through the rain they head to Brad's pad to dry off. Brad, being a gentleman, insists Chantal go and put on a white, button-down Van Heusen so he (and we) can all ogle her. She doesn't get three steps out of the bathroom before the director is alerting the seamstress to get ready. "Oh man, I'm in trouble here," Brad moans as she bops over to him smiling. Brad sits down gripping the arms of the chair and clearly fighting for control, as she stands in front of him. Swallowing hard, he stares at her, his mouth agape and she slithers down next to him, coiling her arm inside his. He stares, his eyes as round as saucers, and drool puddles in his lap. "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii," She breathes at him in a throaty voice. Brad's eyes go catatonic, a noiseless explosion goes off in the center of his skull, and his brains run out his ears like yesterday's oatmeal. Pow!! Sorry, seamstress lady, looks like your work is never done this season. Date, and Brad: Done.

*Beep! He-heh-hehehe-he! Double LOL

While Brad has been getting more of his wardrobe destroyed, a date card arrives back at the Resort telling Alli Booty that the other 1-on-1 date is all hers. This leaves the mute, doe-eyed, Bony Britt to stare ahead in a calorically-deficient mope as she realizes she is the only woman remaining without a 1-on-1.

Rappelling or Repelling?

It's time for some group-date hell. Maybe this is why Brad was such a Debbie Downer all night. We've gotten to the point in the season where even the audience is sick of watching the deadwood, I can't even imagine what it must be like for Brad. He hauls a whole stack of it--less Nascar Emily and producer's drama-dream, the Money Shot--to a scenic waterfall so they can all have another terror-inspired moment of togetherness. He walks them out on the platform and Jackie Gordon promptly drops a brick in her climbing shorts. Yet another woman terrified of heights being required to "confront her fears." Shame she's gonna' have to do it alone. The ever athletic, Shawntel Munster, traipses past her and bounces down the rappelling line like Spiderman. As she bounces down the waterfall, and Jackie sweats a bucket of white-hot terror, Brad shows some sense by keeping his eyes out behind him. The Money Shot is angrily glaring at the assemblage with her Manson Lights on high beam. "I'm pissed! Brad promised he would never rappel with anyone else--we made a pact!" Brad finally convinces Jackie to head over the top while keeping one out behind him to make sure Michelle hasn't got a butcher knife stashed in her climbing suit, and can't manage both tasks at once. A nervous eye cast to his six, he practically shoves Jackie over the edge, "Hurry up, you pussy before I get shanked between the shoulder blades here!" Jackie makes it down safely to join the other women at the bottom. Brad turns back to Michelle and she pummels him with punches. "We had a pact!" Brad backpedals like crazy. "I was saving you for last!" he reels back trying to hold her off him. "I thought we could go down together?" She smiles like a ferocious feline and purrs at him. They go over the edge together as the women watch them descend the waterfall. If Jackie had been allowed a cell phone, she could have called her mother to have her pick her up at the airport.

The climbing torture over, Brad takes the women to Hot Springs for some seriously depressing whining. Jackie decides she might as well get this over with, and moves out with Brad first. He's there to check on her after practically tossing her over the waterfall. "I'm ok. It would have been good if we could have done it together?" Brad grimaces like she just punched him in the balls. "Uh...maybe one day." Jackie, it was nice knowing you. Congratulations; you get to escape this show with some lovely diamond earrings, many miles travelled, and your dignity and reputation in tact. Next up, a thoroughly hammered Michelle tries to corral him and give him a bunch of shit about Chantal. Speaking of our fair ZipperRipper, she's back at the Resort room down the way hanging out with the next day's victim, Alli Booty. Both gals look to have a snoot full of wine and the producers have thoughtfully stashed a beetle in the room and told Chantal to terrorize Alli with it. Chantal picks the bug up with a magazine and chases her with it. Alli completely freaks out, screams, and throw a glass of booze at Chantal, screaming so loud in the process, she interrupts Brad getting his balls busted off by Michelle. They return to their talk and Michelle bitches him out for liking Chantal. Brad is clearly pissed, so he switches to ever-sweet, Nascar Emily. Emily sits with him on the edge of the springs and basically tells him she knows how to sabotage a relationship like an expert. Brad's face falls. Having seen enough, Brad gathers the women and tells them that there will be no rose tonight. He wanders off in a pout.

*Beep! If Only I'd Been There To Comfort You Sweetie!
Dumped at the Altar

Alli Booty, whose date card had read, "Meet me at the altar," sits around being nervous and fielding questions from the other gals. Chantal is gleefully pressing her about the date when Brad comes riding up outside on a horse. Strangely, he has a tiny little horse in tow, and two baby-horses? Is this a circus act? Why the little horse? He's taking the largest woman left on a pint-sized ride? Alli grins anyway and struggles aboard the poor animal. Talk about weird-looking. Alli gnashes her enormous choppers and straightens her man-shoulders as she climbs aboard her sagging mount. The horse looked like it wanted to bolt. The sadistic producers must have fallen out of the control truck laughing at this visual. Alli's not a bad-looking woman, but she is somewhat oversized in her features and nowhere near in the same league as most of the remaining women. Brad leads her deep into the jungle as the two little baby horses tag along for some reason I can't divine. They stop near some cave and Brad gets her off the tiny horse before it's back gets broken and slams a crash helmet onto Alli's head. "We're going into this forty million year-old cave." Her fear of bugs clearly established by the planted beetle, Alli scowls fearfully into the dank cave and Brad has to pull her inside. She cringes and follows him around fearfully as the camera pans onto every bug and spider they can find. Alli screams and vows to "throw up" as she notices bats hanging from the cave's ceiling. "Oh my god! They won't come after us, will they?" "They have no interest in us," he assures her. "How do you know?" Brad turns and stares at her and I was hoping he was gonna' blurt, "Cause I'm Batman!" but he doesn't. He just vows to protect her from the nasty old bats and leads her up a cave stream to the 'altar'. The altar, it turns out, are some stone steps carved into the cave floor by a running spring. Alli slips and slides as Brad pulls out a one inch thick scarf and lays it down in the running water for her to sit on. And I thought the producers were laughing about the horse. Alli grimaces and sits on the razor-thin cloth that's covering slimy, moss-covered rocks as water splashes up her shorts. I could almost hear Harrison laughing. The whole thing was as romantic as lounging around a sewer. Gross. The scene switches and they've managed to somehow get both of them onto a floating table-island for dinner. Predictably, Brad hears gurgling while Alli is speaking and asks, "Are we sinking?" Thanks for the metaphor. She tries to talk and he finally puts her out of her misery with a dumpjob.

Now For Your Completely Unplanned, Totally Spontaneous Stalker Moment

Brad, looking shot, wanders back into his room to sniff the lingering odor of Chantal's perfume and feel better. He tells the strategically placed camera that he is as burned out as Charlie Sheen and needs time to collect himself.

Director: "Cue door knock!"

Unsurprisingly, the producer's have sent their favorite echo chamber, the Money Shot into his room to pester him. Brad looked like he wanted to slam the door in her face, but some arm twisting must have ensued and he invites her in. Michelle finally puts on her double-barreled bitch act in front of him. He lays there like bag of meal while she tries to molest him. Realizing he'd rather be kissing a fire hydrant in a dog kennel, she sits up and systematically announces which girls he will cut and in what order. Brad looks at her like he found her steaming and stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Finally getting the cue from the director she can leave, Michelle slithers out the door before Brad grabs a bottle of hemlock and drinks it.

Cocktail Time and Your Weekly Nascar Reminder

The party starts off with Brad having a sit down with Nascar Emily to get some clarification on her saboteur comments at the Springs. Brad sizes her up: "I'm scared of you." Nascar unfolds her angel wings and clarifies, "I pull away...but, I really care about you a lot!" The thought planted in your head not to forget this one, Brad moves off in search of fresh prey. Unfortunately, the prey finds him. The Money Shot corrals him and he all but tells her she is a total skeeze. "I feel like we've taken ten steps backward!" Finally called on her awful acting performance, Michelle turns on the waterworks. Hey, it works for everyone else. Brad manages his escape while ZipperRipper Chantal, dressed like a roman empress in a leopard print toga, holds court with Shawntel Munster, and the two babes decide based on Brad's comments that someone has been giving him a load of hell. Eyes immediately swing toward the Money Shot and after much lying and rigamarole, she finally confesses to being a stalker.

*Beep! I got the restraining order just in case! Stop hiding under your bed and call me back! I'm not mad. C'mon or you'll miss out on our big moment!

Chantal steps forward to sooth her wounded beast and rips all restraint off, "I'm, I'm in love with you! I wanted to tell since I have a rose and you know I have no ulterior motive." BUZZ! Whoa, clear violation of show etiquette. There are to be no pronouncements of love by any contestant until the Last Chance Dates... except the bat-shit crazy ones. Chantal has introduced an new element to this season. Which means she is the winner or just sealed her doom at the podium of humiliation and a spot as the next Bachelorette. Brad, me boy, I could be a selfish prick here and pray you dump her so I can ogle her for 11 weeks this summer, but I'll let you have her if you want her. Just the kinda guy I am. Anyway, Brad stares at her and then says like a robot, "Thank you." You romantic devil.

Somebody must have sent a St. Bernard into the local watering hole, because the wingman makes a shocking appearance tinging his champagne glass with his cheese knife calling a tedious week over.

Dump Em Danno!

Already safe, The Zipper Ripper.


1) Ashley Sherbert--no more H. required. Our lone Ashley broke her vow to get down and dirty with Brad unless you can do it in a passed note.

2) Nascar Emily--still very much in the running, but this pot needs to start boiling and soon.

3) Bony Britt--the last dress filler

4) Shawntel Munster--really like this girl. Hey Fleiss, she'd make a good Bachelorette. Can't you just imagine your creeped-out Nancy Boys? Fine television, I tell ya.

The wingman comes in and notices through his bloodshot orbs that there is only one rose left,then steps into the shadows like John Wilkes Booth and loudly cocks the hammer back on a pistol and points it at Brad--just in case he's feeling rebellious.

5) The Money Shot. Yeah, he wanted to do that. (rolls eyes)

Cut: Jackie Gordon to go along with the already dismissed Alli Booty. Jackie cries but not too much and departs with her dignity intact. Good for you, Jackie. You were horribly miscast.

Next week: My take on all the Scandals (yawn) and Brad hauls the gals to some tropical locale so several can remove their bikini tops and make me a happy pirate. See ya then.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

1/31--The NASCAR Emily Show

The "Money Shot" resorts to extreme measures for a rose.

Michelle Money performs the old "Tokyo chokehold" on a rival.

Bradley Picklesimer Womack
is a man of courage. Or incredible stupidity, depending on your point of view. After being honest enough in interviews to admit that he fell hard and fast for his final girl--as early as their 1st date--the Pickle seems determined to immolate himself and make the remainder of his life a living hell. Somebody besides his cliche-spouting therapist needs to remind this guy that he plans on living out his life with one of these women...not 8 of them. Look dumbass, if you know which one you're gonna' hook up with when this is over, how about laying off the throttle a little bit. He's knockin' 'em down like nine pins out there. One kiss after another, one intimate moment after another; continued utterances of "she could be my wife." on each and every date. Mathematically speaking, Brad is spending only an eighth of his time with future Mrs., and 7/8ths of his time with women he knows he's not gonna' be shacking up with...all while mumbling sweet nothings within virtual earshot of a woman he has confessed in interviews is having real jealousy issues. "Every Monday...well, it's a long day...calls in the middle of the night...texts coming at all hours...at times she won't answer the phone until she calms down." Brilliant, dummy. And you already know who she is!! Dumbass. Are you telling me you didn't know she was jealous and possessive when you were informing every women in your harem how special they were to you? Did you forget there were cameras there? She has a TV, doesn't she? Nevermind. But speaking of his final gal, I'm afraid my intrepid investigations have led me dangerously close to the heart of the matter. You see, every Monday and Tuesday I write this, I'm getting a steady stream of texts blazing through my Blogger account. They are uni-directional, not a full conversation, and every time I try to erase them, the formatting on my blog goes nuts. They're going to be a distraction, but we're just gonna' have to live with them, so bear with me. Ok, here we go:

*Beep! Hey Baby! Almost time out here! I'm so excited to see us! I feel soooo much better than last week! Kiss!

Like I said, ignore those. Here we go.

Viva Las Wingman

Chris Harrison gets the ball rolling by storming the Cathouse and rousting the hangover crew at what appears a mighty early hour...say 10 or 11 AM by the looks of it. Harrison, looking like he's the son of a bitch on vacation not the women, comes wandering into the living room looking like he's ready for a round of golf and informs the gals that this week there will be one 1-on-1 date, one group date, and one of the dreaded 2-on-1-somebody-can-hit-the-bricks-date. But before the pressure cooker amps up, the women need to get their lovely rear ends in gear, cause it's time to hit the road. First stop, Las Vegas. Half of his work for the week done, Harrison grabs the wife and kids and heads for the strip. Lucky Asshole.

Meet Brad's Embalmer

The women arrive on the strip at the Aria hotel, which is obviously desperate for business in these tough times. They get a "sky suite" that looks like it costs around 5 grand a night and Brad leads them inside and tells them they are all in for a treat, they all get a date with His Wonderfulness this week. The Aria, or some other bunch of gullible dweebs got shafted this week. By far the best hotel digs I've ever seen on this show and the shopping spree that comes later looked to have some merchants crying a river. Anyway, Brad drops the date card and slips away as Michelle $Cha-Ching$ grinds her molars at having to read any other name besides her own on the date card. The one-on-one goes to the Merry Mortician, Shawtel Munster. She comes downstairs in some short shorts that show off some delicious gams. Turns out, the Pickle is going to take her on an unlimited shopping spree at some fancy pants mall. I doubt this trip was quite as 'unlimited' as Brad was told to make it sound, but it did look expensive anyway.

*Beep! Oh, yeah, that sure was fun. Sitting there on my ass watching her swing all that swag around. It's ok. I'm not mad.I know the producers pick these dates. But think of how few things you'd have to buy me when I move out there if I had a Bally's handbag. By the way, how are the malls in Austin? No prob. I'll check them out and let you know. Do they have a Bally's?

Shawntel returns to the room and parades her bags of pelf in front of the other girls, who all look like they want to snatch them out of her hands and toss them out the window. The Money Shot examines the supposedly $5,000 handbag and drools on it before giving Shawntel a look that says, "be careful what you drink bitch!" Shawntel heads upstairs with a beautiful dress she bought, and I must say I was really looking forward to seeing her reveal. She comes back down the stairs with the gorgeous dress encasing her awesome body, but her beautiful face was framed by a hairstyle that looked like Ruth Buzzy's on Laugh-In. What's the matter, no hairnet? She just needed a mop and bucket to complete the washerwoman look. It was truly awful looking. Regardless, Womack arrives and takes her up onto the roof of the Aria and they have dinner. It gives us a good idea just how little he's spoken with Ms. Munster when we hear he doesn't even know she's a mortician. They sit down to dinner and she drops the bomb. "Huh? What? You're a what?" She explains she is a funeral director by trade. Ever sincere, ever compassionate Picklemonster asks a few leading questions about how the art form is practiced and she fills him in over Chicken Parmesan. Brad fights hard to keep a straight face while she cuts up her chicken and tells him about replacing blood with chemicals. He pushes his plate away and busts up laughing. "Just drain the vein." Ha hahahahah! I'm betting Brad didn't need his vein drained after that. Fireworks erupt from the upper roof of the hotel and once again, she leaps into his arms like on their action movie date and they trade a few lukewarm kisses. The other girls are seen rushing to the suite's windows and watching the pyrotechnics while Brad holds Shawntel aloft.

*Beep! Can I ask something? Just how many times did you 'over the threshold' carry this woman? You know I won't be mad.

Brad and Shawtel kiss with torpid disinterest as the fireworks crackle overhead.

*Beep! Woo Hoo! Hot stuff! LOL. You looked like you were kissing your aunt Edith. Did she smell like formaldehyde? LOL. yeah, that was mean.

Ashley Squared

Just to make things even more confusing than they generally are, the producer's decide to pick the two Ashley's--Sweetums and Sherbert--for the 2-on-1-and-I'll-friggin-see-ya-never-again-date. They also decided it was the best way to introduce the audience to the theme of cruelty for the night too; seems Ashley and Ashley are best friends in the house as well. The second Munster-babe reads the names for the group date, both Ashley's know they've been paired up. One looks upset and the other starts to bawl. (Guess which one got booted?) Just for the helluva it, all the other girls who are going on the group date start crying too. Hey, is trapping women together in a hermetically sealed room the way this show does make them start to cry like when they all cycle their periods together? Or like going to bathroom? How come you gals all piss in tandem anyway? Or is it like when one person yawns everybody starts? I just wondered cause it always seems to happen. Anyway, they all cry...except guess who? Yeah, the Money Shot gets to announce that all the broads surrounding her can hit the bricks. I'd like to see her hit the bricks...from about forty stories up.

Viva Las Gayness

Brad takes the two Ashley's to the Vegas version of Cirque du soleil called "Viva Las Elvis". Boy, talk about combining the very worst of two cultures. Cheesy gymnastic routines performed by homosexual teenagers dressed in gold lame suits--delicious. Anyway, some big shot or another greets them at their gay rehearsal and let's Brad and the gals know that they will be trying out for the show. In a complete ripoff of last season's Lion King lameness, the two Ashley's and Brad try out for the show, bouncing around on wires and doing kiddy-level gymnastics. Sherbert is by far the more comfortable and more athletic of the two and voiceovers all but spell the end of this for us. The slice and dice edit gets going and various scenes of Sweetums are shown where she beats herself up as never being able to find love. By the time they split for dinner, the writing is on the wall like East L.A. graffiti. Neither look interested in the food, and Brad hardly even pauses before he grabs the rose and tells Sweetums: "You're gonna' make a great wife, but not for a Texas stud like me who owns lots of bars. I need a woman who is dramatic and manipulative. Sorry, you're just too sweet." He then hands the crazy Sherbert the rose and walks Sweetums to her limo of doom. The producer's must not have liked the limo footage she gave them because her exit interview looks like they let her take off her make up, put her nightie on, and fall asleep before they woke her up and filmed up so she would look completely dreadful. Or they canned it from three nights previous when she was drunk and having menstrual cramps. Whichever, it's sad nonetheless. Back at the Aria, some dirty-looking roadie comes into the women's suite like a nighttime crackhead looking for an easy score, and snatches Sweetums' bag away. The women all react with various levels of shock, disgust and sadness. While Sweetums rides away we are whisked back to the show where Sherbert, dressed like an airmail letter, and Brad, dressed like the gayest G.I. Joe doll in history, fly around on strings for the crowd.

*Beep! That was so sad. I can't believe you kept that nut and sent that sweetheart home. What does that say about me?

NASCAR Emily's Traumatic Return to Where She Practically Lives

In a show of remarkable producer-cruelty, they stage a date at the Las Vegas Motor speedway so Nascar Emily can suck up all the drama for a week like sinkhole in Savannah. The group harem arrives at the Speedway in limos and as soon as they get out, a Nascar comes toodling up and out pops Brad. He promptly performs a commercial for the Speedway about an upcoming Nascar race, and then informs the babes that they will all be racing cars. The cars actually looked like real racers too, but considering the way the women drove, they may have well just held it at Uncle Waldo's Go-Cart Land. Regardless, the women take turns driving around the track like they were on their way to the grocery. All except ZipperRipper Chantal, who apparently crammed the pedal on the floor and blew around the oval like a dart. "Holy crap!" Brad observed as she tore around the track. What is it with Brad and chicks who drive like hell? Anybody remember DeAnna's fixation with gas-piston engines? Anyway, amidst the fun and exhaust fumes, Dr. Pickleheimer, being the therapy-altered, all-observant and sensitive man he is these days, notices that something is wrong with Nascar Emily. Hark! Are those strains of drama that I hear? He hauls Emily aside for a sit-down on the infield and she tells him that her late fiance was a Nascar driver. Brad looks like he ate something bad for lunch. "I feel like a jerk!" You do? Why? It's not like it was your idea to bring her there pickleboy. The next fifteen minutes the Bachelor gives way to the Nascar Emily Show as she suddenly has the engagement rock on her finger that Ricky gave her and she has to woman up and take a spin about the track. She hops into the car and starts to bawl as half a string orchestra gets going in the background. Brad ducks in her window and tells her she doesn't have to do this. They all can all leave right now if she is uncomfortable. But Nascar bravely goes forward and saunters around the track in 1st gear. The other women, either giving in to their nascent humanity, or being ordered by the creepy producers, all cheer her on as she slowly circles the oval, led by the ZipperRipper. It's damned effective TV. Give these ghoulish assholes some credit; they know their shit. In reality? Ha. Emily, who has worked for the Speedchannel covering Nascar races and is reported to have dated Dale Earnhardt Jr. (a guy damned familiar with losing loved ones in racing), and is still considered a member of one of racing's most powerful family's, is shown to be traumatized by the whole thing and having a "transformative" moment to get on with her life. Great TV, but in truth, it was about as traumatizing as watching Michael Jordan return to a basketball court. But great TV nonetheless.

At the required, bikini-bash that always follows a group date, Brad waits a total of ten seconds before he hauls Emily aside again for some more private time. The women glare daggers. The ZipperRipper tries to defend him: "It's just because he's worried about her. She was crying." This prompts Alli Booty to cut loose with one of the most insensitive and absolutely truthful remarks in this show's history: "So, the person with the worst story gets all the attention!?" Yep, that's about the size of it, Alli. If you'd like some private time with Brad, you'll need to dredge up a dead relative or two. Get with the program, girl. Brad corrals Emily and lays it out for her: "Mly, I really, really like you!" They discuss her date and he then takes her to a lounger by the pool and confesses that he feels like he's battling a ghost for her affections. She whines about how all men shut down when they hear her story. Lisa from Oz gets her first chance to speak in weeks by playing therapist to Emily. Emily relates Brad's reactions and shrugs, "If you take me to a race track, it's gonna' come out." Fair enough. I think most viewers understand that Emily has adjusted to her tragedy and has moved on, but with this coerced date and Soap Opera edit, the causal viewer is under the misconception that Emily hears birds chirping on a May morning and looks out the window and sees burning plane wreckage. Total BS, but great TV. Has she moved on? Hell if I know. The scene shifts and we see that Alli Booty, despite her lack of a dead relative, gave them a soundbite they KNOW they're gonna' use and scores some screen time with Brad. She bawls and whines that she doesn't feel special. Brad asks her not to cry and hugs her like she's a bag of tile grout. I'm rather amazed she's still around. The scene shifts again, and suddenly Brad's alone on the loungers with the Chantal. The ZipperRipper is as bombed as a moonshiner's apprentice, but she struggles and manages to sound sane and sober for at least a moment or two until the veneer slips and out comes the "L" word.. "I defended you to the other girls. You were just helping Emily. It makes me love...no, that's the wrong word...makes me like you all the more." Brad's exhausted, drunken eyebrow pops up. "Back to the love comment? I heard it." She tries to get away from the comment but he presses. Finally she melts altogether and bawls," If you don't feel for me, send me home!" He begs her not to cry and she tries one more rally before she collapses onto his chest bawling. POW! Brad's zipper explodes. But "Mly" gets the rose. Date over.

*Beep! OMG! People will think I'm crazy!

Shrink Time

Now, I don't want you folks thinking I'm one of those lazy bloggers out there. Since we have two Shawntel/Chantal's and they're both pronounced the same way, I thought I'd do some research into the name. Now it's obvious that the "Shawntel" is just a bastardized American version of the original French name, so I went over to an online Frog to English dictionary and did some research. I wasn't surprised by what I found and I'll bet you won't be either. Here's the entry:

Chantal: Pronounced Chann-Taaal; American: Shawn-tel; Texas: SHAN-TELL; translation: She who makes pants vanish.

I think you'll agree her nickname is accurate. Anyway, Brad has seen too much crying caused by all his horndogging this week, so he calls Dr. Manwhore who tells him to tear through these women like toilet tissue. The Dr. finally says something deep before Brad falls asleep on the phone: "You have to let them in to know you. Strength and vulnerability go hand in hand." Decent advice. Now armed with his default mission statement and medical permission to whore around, Brad heads to cocktail hour at the Tearful Bar & Grill.

Cocktail Dominatrix

Back at the Aria, Chantal is sounding weepy again, so Marissa the Mannequin is allowed to speak so we'll remember who she is when she's booted and to wind Chantal up a little more. "...he just sent the person he gave the first impression rose to home; so if you think you're something special, you're crazy!" Drama scene set, Brad comes waltzing in looking like he'd wished he'd worn that Nascar crash helmet. "Uh, lot of emotion this week about how you're all feeling. I'm here to find my wife, and my shrink says that's healthy, so I'm going to screw as many of you as I can, so tough!" The ZipperRipper moves in first and gets him before the Money Shot can kidnap him and here we go. "I saw a side of Chantal on that group date that I'd never thought I'd see in a million years. Emotional is one thing, but dramatic is something else." He then utters the second most famous version of a redneck's last words: "I don't need drama in my life."

*Beep! I beg your pardon! Drama Queen?

They have a talk and she starts out calm and mature-looking. This terrifies Brad: "I'm going to be perfectly honest with you, all the girls felt like that date was sitting around watching you and Emily." Brad backpedals like a clown on a unicycle: "Let me explain that. Anytime I see a woman cry, I'm going to stop and comfort her. It wasn't about forming a special connection or anything--I swear!" But then he shrugs at her when she assures him they are in a good place and warns her to "...stop giving me so much crap." That is followed by a smartassed look I've never seen from him before that I can't read--a half-grimace, screw you! look. Beats me. She, however, has the prescription for what ails him. She drops the mature woman bit, giggles and grins like a little girl, and lays her head on his chest like a teenager. POW! Alli Booty is up next and he gives her a little cake or something and has the script boy tell him what Alli was wearing night one so he can make a lame comparison to the little cake. Ok. Marissa the Mannequin gets to speak again and hands Brad a pile of notes since she can't pester him with text messages. She then talks about how she has put herself out there. Kiss of death. He tries to speak with the anorexic Bony Britt but can't utter three words before the producer's cram Michelle's nasty mug back into our faces to remind us about what a bitch she is. Brad hauls her away next and she goes all $1,000 a night Dominatrix on him. She seals him in a room, sits on his lap and forbids him to speak. She then orders him around, mimes slapping his face, and finally smooches him before demanding that they go send some girls home now. "You can speak next time." Brad is either nauseous, terrified, or has a world-class boner...or all three. The wingman comes in, his golf shoes clicking on the tile floor and a spare tee tucked in behind his ear, and tings his glass calling the party over.

*Beep! OMG! That's just gross! Do I need to buy a bullwhip?! Gross! Gross! Gross! Ur such a pig! Don't even try calling me!

Dump 'Em Danno!

Already safe: Nascar Emily, Ashley Sherbert, Shawntel Munster

The wingman runs some interference before Brad comes in.


1) The Money Shot--I guess it was all 3...or at least the last one.

2) Alli Booty--crying and mean comments pay off.

3) Bony Britt--totally silent this week. Please go get something to eat!

4) Jackie Gordon--the new invisible woman.

The wingman reenters clicking on the tile and looks at the camera: "Allow me to recap dramatically: There is but a sole flower remaining. The contestants are: Marissa the Mannequin, whom you've heard speak a grand total of 4 times in one month; Lisa from Oz--go ahead and tell me one thing about her besides from the fact that she owns a pair or ruby-red slippers. Go ahead, I dare you! And the narrator for most of this season and the reason our seamstress is spending six hours every week repairing Brad's pants, ZipperRipper Chantal." (Turns to Brad) "When you're ready..." and departs with the golf glove bouncing from his rear pocket.

Brad pauses dramatically.

5) ZipperDestroyer Chantal

She accepts the rose with a "I'd be glad to. You're killing me." (Translation: I'll kill YOU later for this.)

Lisa and Marissa, both aware they're about to miss out on more world travel, start crying and depart. Both bawl like all hell. Lisa says more than we've heard from her all season.

Next week: Costa Rica! See ya then!