Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Des picked Chris
But Chris picked Drew.
(Now wouldn’t that be somethin’ for an alternate ending?)
Clearly we’re all still reeling from the underwhelming finale of this latest round of The Bachelorette. If you watched, you already know how it all went down in Antigua. If you didn’t watch….well, you saved yourself three hours of life and productivity. So either way, I’m not sure why you’re reading this, let alone why I feel compelled to write a review of a second-tier reality TV show. (I can almost hear my college professors weeping tears of grief for my wasted English degree.) But since we’re all just accepting our downward spiral into Honey Boo Boo-style depravity, here we go:
Some parts were good…
- Watching the finale with girlfriends. That was definitely the best part of the whole fiasco. There were chocolate covered strawberries and penguin slippers involved, and all was as it should be.
- Des’ last dress. That dress was magical. I mean, if James was wearing it Chris would’ve proposed to him.
- Chris’ man-beauty has come leaps and bounds since his introduction. Well done, Chris.
- Drew held it together and didn’t cry too much when Des said sayonara. Way to take it like a man, buddy.
There were some interesting parts…
- Des said, “It throws everything off having Brooks gone.” Um, no. You know what throws everything off. Herpes.
- Chris Harrison seems to be coaching Des through the trauma of choosing between her final two suitors, and my friends and I could not for all our extensive reality TV knowledge figure out whether Chris has any kind of formal training in psychotherapy. Our guess is no. I actually have a hunch that his ear is bugged, and he’s got Anderson Cooper hidden away feeding him lines.
- Des debuts her 157th crop top of the season (she must have missed the memo on modesty…), just in time for a horseback ride through the sweltering jungle. Because who doesn’t wear a crop top when they go riding? Really, that’s what John Wayne originally wore in all his movies- beaded crop tops and assless chaps. You don’t get more practical than that.
- Wondering if Drew’s final walk of shame is more difficult because it’s on sand. (Also, love the conveniently placed rape-van that carts him out of the jungle and back to reality.)
And a lot of it was just really, really ugly…
- In Chris Harrison’s one-on-one conversations with Des, he attempted to look concerned and empathetic, but it came out like a slightly amused grimace. As my friend Cait pointed out, “Now we know what Chris’ bad-sex face looks like.”
- During Des’ beachfront breakup with Drew, we get a lot of closeups of Drew making a face like he just ate a burrito that he found lying in a back alley in Tijuana. Botulism and heartbreak are one and the same.
- Des does a lot of ugly crying (you know, as opposed to “pretty crying” when you just have a solitary tear rolling down your cheek as you whisper poignant statements). Especially during that final date with Drew. Like, “I hate you so much it makes me cry!” Someone get these people a psychiatrist.
- Chris steals Zak’s journal idea and gives Des a journal. Presumably to contain more atrocious poetry. I have an idea, let’s BURN all the poems.
- The whole thing drags on for eternity. This is not childbirth, folks, it shouldn’t take 27 hours! Des, shut up. Chris, pop a squat and pop the question. Cameras, roll. Chris Harrison…well, you do you. And let’s get this ish finished.
- Des goes on to Chris about how incredible it is that “we made it!” You went on vacation for 10 weeks with a man-harem; it’s not like you did a tour in Afghanistan doing raids and working on recon missions. They don’t give out purple hearts for contracting venereal disease.
PS Juan Pablo is the next Bachelor. Let’s take a moment to let it sink in.
This means A) I am morally obligated to watch every episode of that season, and B) my ovaries are weeping with jealousy.*
Toast of the Day: To the happy couple- here’s to a lifetime of codependency and bad poetry. And free nostril adjustments from Papa Chris.
*Apologies to my father, brother, and any other male friend or acquaintance who is tired of hearing about my ovaries.