Friday, September 26, 2014

Hungry Like the Wolf: Some Guy Hesitates

Hello, Readers.  Well, it’s the off season for The Bachelor and its progeny and that means that most of you are busy planning your fall decorations, getting your Christmas shopping lists in good order, and lamenting the fact that a brand spanking new episode of the show we love to hate is not waiting anxiously for you atop the Recorded Programs list on your DVR when you turn on the TV.  There’s always The Good Wife, I suppose. 

As I thought long and hard about this particular post, I realized two things:

A.              I haven’t revisited the folly of my youth in quite some time; and
B.              After watching Bachelor in Paradise for all of you, I’m entitled to a little self indulgence. 

Humor me, would you?

For those of you who care to read me in the off season, you’ll recall several stories involving the community pool in the town where I grew up.  Enjoy them again or for the first time below.  

The following story encompasses some of the themes in those stories but took place years later when Some Guy was an optimistic (and often drunk) college student in my beloved Austin, Texas struggling to pay bills and forge a path across that overgrown, craggy pasture known as life. 


When I was an undergraduate, I bartended my way through school.  As you can imagine, that is—to say the least—a target rich environment.  Everyone loves the person who pours the drinks and the person who pours the drinks loves everyone who stuffs an extra dollar in the jar on the counter. 

Like any other profession—yes, bartending is a ‘profession’—the universe tends to shrink upon itself as people quit, get fired, or go to work at some trendy hotspot in search of a bump in those coveted “extra dollars” we all needed to keep eviction notices off our dirty apartment doors and our phone service on so our mothers could call and make sure we’d made it home from the night before.  In short, in college there wasn’t a stranger behind any bar in town and I liked it that way. 

Incidentally, it was at that time that a certain Brad Womack and his brother Chad were introduced to me.  Both were “bar backs,” or the guys who kept the pint glasses clean and the ice bin filled in exchange for a cut of the tip money and a pat on the rear end at the end of the night.  Say what you want about the Brad Womack but there’s no doubt he’s never been afraid of hard work and he built what he has from the ground up.  Most of that took place before he refused to propose to DeAnna, by the way.  I digress, but I figured you’d enjoy the tie-in.   Annyyyyyhoo…

I lived with my twin brother for most of my college career.  The end of that little experiment is a blog post in and of itself.  However, when we parted ways I lived with the infamous Lenny, a guy named Scott, and the also infamous Ted (see A Friend Does His Duty link above).  Lenny bartended too and where I failed to have connections, he did. 

We spent a lot of time at the Chili’s next door to the restaurant where Lenny worked because Bruce, the manager, was always glad to see us.  How glad?  Glad enough to comp a few rounds of drinks which, after all, was the object of our little game.  I spent a lot of time talking to Bruce about everything from his hunting cabin to the bloomin’ onion. 

One of the places close to our house and filled with the aforementioned heavy pouring restaurant staff was a local Hooters.  I know, Hooters.  Look, to a 21 year old starving college student the prospect of heavily discounted drinks poured by a half-naked, nubile veterinary medicine major with a smile on her face was too much to resist.  We went there a lot. 

At that time, Hooters was the only Breastaurant in town and the staff warranted a little more attention than the slugs they hire these days.  It wasn’t exactly classy, but it wasn’t yet a weigh station on the way to the stripper pole either.  Our real friend there was a girl named (we’ll call her) Jenn. 

Jenn was a dead ringer for Jennifer Aniston except she didn’t smoke uncontrollably and never dated John Mayer.  She was cute, fun, and just a few months away from veterinary school.  Unlike some of the other professional junior college hangers on, Jenn “got it” and she was always glad when our bunch came in for a visit.  I had a small crush. 

Selfishly, we also loved the fact that she was an instant segue for us to meet the rest of the girls.  She was happy to play her part and thankful she didn’t have to wait on some fifty year old alcoholic who’d eventually ask her out after a few pops and a dozen hot wings.    

Jenn was friends with a girl named Amy and another girl named Elizabeth.  Amy was attractive and fun  as well.  She had a very pronounced Waco accent which meant that everything she uttered sounded either funny or dirty.  She had a very pleasant look about her but wasn’t the type to immediately turn heads when she entered a room.  Elizabeth, on the other hand, was quite special to us all.  She was absolutely drop dead gorgeous and the only thing greater than her attractiveness was her utter lack of a brain. 

I cannot impress upon you how dumb she was.  An example?  Sure. 

Ted spent a few months one summer living in Germany with his older brother who was a chef.  Every few years, his brother would move to a different part of the world to learn the cuisine and Ted would go and visit.  Elizabeth and Jenn were at our table one evening and we were discussing Ted’s summer stint in Germany. 

After pausing to absorb the story, Elizabeth looked skyward, took a deep breath, and said, “I think it would be so neat to live somewhere on a totally other continent.” 

“Oh yea, why is that,” I prodded, knowing I was teeing up a dead solid perfect ball for her to hit down the fairway. 

“I mean it would be so neat to see how they like celebrate Thanksgiving over there.”

Bless her orange shorts and tank top wearing heart.  It was on this same night that Elizabeth got the nickname that sticks with her memory to this day.  After she left the table, I said aloud to the group, “She’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, is she.”  Scott, without either hesitating or taking his eyes off of her from across the restaurant said, “she can be a spoon for all I care.”  From that moment on Elizabeth was known as The Spoon. 

Cut to a few pitchers of beer past good judgment and the end of the shift.  Scott and Lenny had left an hour ago to go meet Lenny’s cousin at a bar Ted and I didn’t like.  Ted knew I had “a thing” for Jenn and he chose to stick around to try and assist me in trying to make that “thing” happen.  It didn’t hurt that Jenn promised to make sure that Amy and The Spoon would join us after their shifts.  

Ted and I waited patiently by playing shuffleboard across the closed restaurant floor with sugar caddies and gambling with the Hooters manager while the girls did their closing sidework. Ted ended up taking the guy for eighty bucks and to pay up he comped our entire bar and food tab.  Those were indeed “the days.” 

Around midnight, the girls got done and we all hopped in Ted’s car and headed for our oasis:  Sixth Street in downtown Austin.  On the way there, the girls pounded shots of Jaegermeister from a bottle that one of them (the classiest one, no doubt) had smuggled into her bag while simultaneously stripping off the Hooters uniforms in exchange for something more comfortable but not quite as tasteful as the orange shorts.  Man, I miss college.  

We parked, took a shot with the girls as they took turns in the passenger seat checking their hair and makeup in the visor mirror and we headed to our favorite bar in search of whatever the rest of the night had to offer.  The Spoon looked stunning but I reminded myself that my goal was to ask Jenn out on a real date before the night was over. 

Here’s where it gets interesting. 

It’s essential for me to provide some insight as to what it was like to go out on Sixth Street with a girl the caliber of The Spoon.  If horny guys were mosquitoes, going out with The Spoon was like walking through an African jungle covered in sugar without the benefit of bug spray.  One had to be very careful where he allowed The Spoon to be displayed.  

The Spoon was, of course, oblivious to the shower of testosterone-driven attention she would get and would say things like, “gosh, everyone is so nice here,” or “there’s not even a line at the bar.”  If ignorance is truly bliss then The Spoon was the happiest person in Austin, if not all of Texas. 

The next hour consisted of Ted, Amy, Jenn, and I sipping beers and watching The Spoon get hit on by every guy in the bar.  There were several times when Jenn and I were alone at the bar but the moment never seemed right for me to ask her out.  Each time I failed to swing, I told myself that the night was not over yet.  I vowed to push ahead. 

At 1:30 a.m. the bar lights flickered signaling almost last call and I ordered another drink hoping that it might provide the courage I lacked.  Ted did the same and before the drinks were served The Spoon announced that she would like to go dancing. 

Another history lesson is in order.  At that time what is now known as “Dirty Sixth” was the only game in town for bars, give or take some great dives peppered around town.  Everything closed at 2am with the exception of two places.  One was known as The Buffalo Club.  It was an after hours college bar that (thankfully) served cold water and played pop music at an obnoxious volume until 4am.  A visit there was inevitably followed by a trip to Denny’s or Taco Cabana before passing out in anticipation of waking up smelling like a hobo and praying it was your own bed (or at least your own residence) you passed out in. 

The other place was a gay bar.  You can guess where The Spoon wanted to go. 

Let me just say this before the politically correct ones in the bunch get all uppity about my gay bar protest.  My reticence stemmed not from the fact that I would either be recruited or converted but rather from the fact that a gay dance club did not serve my interest at the time.  I needed precious one-on-one time in a subdued environment, not Duran Duran and sangria. 

As we approached the club, one of the only bars on Congress Avenue at that time, I grabbed Jenn’s hand and said, “please don’t abandon me.”  She laughed, squeezed my hand, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.  “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m sure there are plenty of cute guys in there who’d love to dance with you.”  “Maybe I’ll be The Spoon this time,” I said.  We laughed together as we entered the atrium of the bar. 

Just past the podium and cash register manned by a college girl and a guy in a skin-tight tank top and even tighter jeans blared “Hungry Like the Wolf” by Duran Duran and I could see literally hundreds of shirtless man dancing in unison to their anthem.  “Must they perpetuate the stereotype,” I wondered. 

Ted and I hung back a bit as the girls paid their cover and walked past Freddie Mercury after he stamped their hands and opened the magical copper clip on the velvet rope signifying the boundary between my world and a bunch of hungry wolves.  Oddly enough, no one approached The Spoon. 

The girls put their ID’s back in their clutch purses and looked back at Ted and me as if to ask, “now’s the time, boys, are you coming in or not?”  Ted knew I still had business to take care of and he never minded looking at The Spoon.  We looked each other in the eye, nodded, and simultaneously took our shirts off, paid our cover, and walked into the bar. 

Jenn grabbed my hand, Amy grabbed Ted’s, and The Spoon parted the sea of Jordache jeans and suntan lotion as we searched in the dark corners of the club for a table.   We found one and I quickly headed to the bar across the dance floor just in time for last call. 

As I sat there waiting to make eye contact with the bartender, I smiled.  I knew I’d be back sitting next to Jenn in no time and my spontaneous decision to remove my shirt and jump out of my comfort zone to be with her would provide the perfect background for me to ask her on a real date. 

It was at that moment I heard my name.  “Some Guy?”  “Some Guy, is that you?” 

As I turned to my left . . . shirtless and glistening in sweat . . . alone . . . with a twenty dollar bill in my hand, I saw Bruce.  Remember Bruce?  He was the manager at the Chili’s next door to where Lenny worked.  You know, the guy I spent hours talking to about his lonely hunting cabin in the woods.   Like me, Bruce was shirtless and in search of a drink . . . and I assumed more than some hunting cabin chatter. 

“I had no idea he was gay,” I thought.  

It occurred to me that Bruce was simultaneously having the same thought about me. 

“Who are you here with,” he asked. 

Nervous and searching for common ground (I mean aside from the fact that we were both trying to make last call before dancing the rest of the night away to Duran Duran), I stuck with what we had in common.

“I’m here with my roommate, Ted.”   

Not the answer I was searching for.  The funny part about that exchange is where my mind went at the time.  First, I was actually excited that Bruce thought I was a Friend of Dorothy because it would mean a few extra drinks at the bar next time we went in there.   Granted, it would probably mean a strawberry daiquiri, but I wasn’t going to scoff at free booze. 

After I “outed” myself by giving him the impression that I was on a date with Ted, I became concerned that I might no longer enjoy the type of attention that Bruce was accustomed to giving me.  I’d courted, dated, and broken up with Bruce in less than 90 seconds.   

After nodding to Bruce and getting my drink, I sauntered back across the dance floor and sat next to Jenn in the booth we’d secured earlier.  The Spoon was on the dance floor and Ted and Amy were getting friendly across the table. 

On the way out, Jenn hailed a cab for the three girls because their apartment complex was in the opposite direction of our place.  Ted and I got a kiss on the cheek from Jenn and Amy and we both got an enthusiastic hug from a drunken Spoon.  “This was so much fun,” she bubbled.  “We should totally go out on a Friday night again.” 

“Sounds great,” I said.  “How about tomorrow?” 

“Call us,” she said, as Jenn and Amy rolled their eyes laughing. 

God bless her orange short and tight t-shirt wearing heart. 

For the record, I never did ask Jenn out on that date.  So much of life is timing, especially when it comes to romance.  She and I remained friends for several years and then, like most things we hold dear in our youth, she simply faded away; her presence replaced by the fond memory of our brief friendship. 

Also for the record, Bruce never asked me out.

Well, there it is.  Long, convoluted, and self-indulgent.  Thanks for humoring me.  Enjoy the off-season and, if you’re inclined to ask someone out, don’t think about it.   Do it and see what happens.  I’ll write as soon as inspiration finds me.  In the mean time, I’ll be headed to Germany to celebrate Thanksgiving on a Friday.  DP 


Thursday, August 7, 2014

Off Season Post: Courtney Robertson Book Review.

Hello, Readers.  

Look, I know you're all willingly distracted by the Petri Dish that is the is the Bachelor in Paradise.  For you die hards, you'll know that I live Tweeted during that mess last week. I'll try and do it again this week but don't hold your collective breath.  @someguyinaustin  

Fortunately for you, my knee has been hurting lately and I decided to forego my individual run and make it home to watch.  Unfortunately, I think live tweeting is as far as I'm going to go with that show.  I'm already tired of Marcus, the guy who looks like Thor's brother has almost slept with the entire cast already (including the men), and if Lacy were any dumber she'd be seaweed.

Frankly, I'd rather spend my time reading thoughtful, beautifully crafted prose.  I read Courtney Robertson's book, I Didn't Come Here to Make Friends instead.  Why, you ask?  Good question.  Because I am a man of my word.  I also committed to a blog post on my thoughts regarding the book.    Here goes nothing.  

First off, I don't think it's too much to demand a bit of accuracy in the title of the book. War and Peace is, after all, about war and peace.  Allow me to elaborate. 

It took Courtney all of 3 pages to name drop and even fewer pages to bring up her vagina.  "Fine," I thought.  "It's her book.  Just keep reading."  

After another 10 pages of superfluous facts about her "giant bush," shaving her "giant bush," (sort of) losing her virginity in a swimming pool to some dude before shaving her giant bush, and then having another dude head south of the border before telling her to shave her giant bush, we finally get to stuff about The Bachelor.  I couldn't figure out if I was reading a landscaping book or a book about a reality show.    

The book should have been titled, I Didn't Come Here Before Shaving My Giant Bush.  At this point I began to become confused as to what the word "come" actually meant in the title.  

And another thing, when she does finally start discussing The Bachelor she lets us know that she isn't, "going to lie, she had a strategy going in."  

That strategy, you ask? On page, 76 she tells us,  "[m]y goal was to win the girls over, even if I didn't like them, AND MAKE FRIENDS WITH EVERYONE."  Notwithstanding the fact that the emphasis is mine, so much for the title of the damn book.  

The entire contradiction was frustrating to me.  I can't imagine she meant the title ironically, which means her editor sucks.  It reminded me of that chubby hack, Jason Aldean's video for his "country" song, Chillin' on a Dirt Road.  Look at a picture from the video.

First. Class. Douchebag.

It appears he's Chillin' Next to an Asphalt Road, doesn't it?  There's not even a dirt road in sight.  That fact alone makes him an idiot.  We won't even get to the pseudo-beard, colored bracelets, or the tough guy look-away-from-the-camera-for-effect gaze.  

If you're not actually going to chill on a dirt road, then don't name you're song Chillin' on a Dirt Road, dipshit.  If your strategy is to "make friends with everyone", then don't title your book I Didn't Come Here to Make Friends.  Apparently, she did.  


Look, I realize that this book isn't intended to be Pulitzer winning material.  However, my guess is that Courtney never heard of Freytag's Pyramid.  

Remember this from high school?    


From the content of this book, this is a more accurate representation of every date Courtney has ever been on rather than a representation of the plot line of some Greek or Shakespearean drama.  

The only changes I'd make to it based upon reading the book is that the Climax portion of the graph would be a plateau instead of a point and the Falling Action line would read "Post-Coital Regret."  Courtney seems to enjoy spending a great deal of time there but never seems to figure out how to stay away from Rising Action, if you know what I mean.  Other than that, it's completely accurate. 

Before I go any further, let me make a point that might surprise some of you.  I'm glad she wrote this book.  In fact, I think it was a genius move.  In 2012 (yes, 2012), I wrote this about Courtney's WTA apology. 

Courtney clearly realizes that the fun she had being the bad guy this season is coming back in a big way. Although she attempted to own what happened—and I’ll give her a bit of credit for at least trying to admit it—it appears she’s about to learn a couple of life’s toughest lessons. Unfortunately for most of us these lessons are not often learned without a steep price.

By the way, the “steep price” I’m referring to here doesn’t include ruining a chance to sort of marry Ben after a loose engagement period and a lot of public exposure. She’ll win that battle but whether she’ll win the one after her 15 minutes are long gone is still up for debate.

Courtney begins to understand that certain mistakes have permanent consequences. Put another way: some doors can’t be reopened once they’re closed no matter how much we apologize. Second chances are a gift, not a foregone conclusion and getting one should never be assumed. Short sightedness is a raging red flag of immaturity. For her sake, let’s hope her apology was sincere and let’s hope that whether she gets the big heave ho or not next week that she’s learned her lesson. I, for one, am not holding my breath. 

Prophetic, isn't it?  What's my point?  My point is that this book is indeed Courtney's second chance. Somehow, I think she realized that before hiring a ghost writer to write it.  I'll get to what I think is the "big takeaway" after I go through the book; however, by writing the book when she did Courtney accomplished a few things that no former contestant, much less any "villain" has heretofore accomplished. 

She got to tell her side of the story without being interrupted by Harrison, yelled at by alcohol-soaked former contestants with giant axes to grind, or being contradicted or condescended to by Ben. 

She got paid (well) to talk about herself.

She got to redefine who she was (is) to everyone who watched the show.  

She got tons of exposure long after a time when the press was tired of her.

She got to make amends (in writing) in a very public format with the contestants who she actually liked but offended.  

Like I said, genius.  

The book is essentially a big Bounty picker upper for every spill she made on The Bachelor and during the press extravaganza afterward.  Let's not forget she also got to make her ex-fiance look like the bad guy and herself look like the victim who took the high road.  Whether her version is true or not, it's currently the only one out there, which makes it as good as the truth--or even better.  

The first half of the book--up to the obligatory color pictures for effect--is less contemplative and more disorganized than the post-Bachelor engagement portion of the book.  I found that telling.  Ironically, it's likely an appropriate metaphor for her life up to that point.  

There are gems such as her lament that she'd already dated a guy two weeks and they hadn't had sex yet.  Her mother once told her not to date a man with an ass smaller than hers or to marry a guy who won't pick up a check or has a horrible last name like Dick.  She can hem and haw all she wants about that but that's pretty solid advice if you ask me.  

There are strange contradictions throughout the book including that fact that she portrays herself (honestly, I think) as a loyal, loving person yet she seems willing to mount anything from Southern California to Arizona that is longer than it is wide.  She seems thoughtful and introspective, almost to the point of shyness but tells us she's never afraid to walk around naked and even less afraid to re-engage in destructive relationships with men she objectively knows are bad for her--even horrible.  

There is good gossip throughout despite the fact that she hated her life being plastered (often falsely) across gossip magazines from coast to coast; something on which she blames the failure of her engagement. 

We learn first hand how little interaction there actually is between the Bachelor and each woman leading up to the Fantasy Suite.  We learn that there's even less interaction between the "happy" couple in the four months subsequent to the "happiest day of their lives." 

I've said many times that Wes Hayden is the only person to ever go on this show and be honest.  Until now.  Sure, there are some embarrassing life regrets in the book--both before and after the Final Rose--and there's a bunch of stuff in there a lot of people would not put in an email much less in a book about themselves. 

The book is honest and I respect that.  She owns her faults and her strengths.  She doesn't hide from her mistakes, rationalize them away, or blame anyone else for them.  In fact, she forgives when she's not required to do so.  Can we say any of that about Ben or the vast majority of the former cast members, including the ones hurling insults at her from the safe confines of the WTA panel?  

My favorite part of the book was the brilliantly placed jab after jab after jab she was able to land squarely on Ben's jaw without coming across as bitter or bitchy.  I'll give the ghost writer credit for that.  Clearly, whoever footed the bill for this nonsense knew that in order to sell books, Courtney would have to remain in her post-villan, somewhat rehabilitated, cuckholded fiancé persona.  

Ben was, and likely remains, a self-involved a-hole.  He peaked when he got dumped by Ashley but even then we got glimpses of his condescending nature, disdain for rejection, sense of entitlement and his unreasonably bitchy mother.  

Courtney simply states the facts without taking shots at the groin.  

"Ben had some pet peeves when it came to me . . . like I believed in luck, I shopped at Whole Foods excessively . . . and I was always complaining about being cold.  He didn't think I was sophisticated or smart.  He even told me I was naive once for not realizing that he'd done the show to promote his winery. . . --but for more about what he didn't like about me, he'll have to write his own book." 

What's that saying about the pen being mightier than a winery leasee (yes, he leases and doesn't own) with a bad haircut and a poor attitude?  

Ok, so my big take away?  Courtney did a lot of thinking sitting alone in her apartment while Ben was out cashing in on free stuff and cheating on her in public.  She got a lot of good advice too.  Is she perfect?  No, of course she isn't but she seems to have done something that the vast majority of the ex-contestants will never do:  grow a little as a person.  

On page 227 Courtney says, "It's funny how you repeat behavior, even when you know it's bad for you, because it's the only thing you know.  It's like a comfortable misery."  

Truer words have rarely ever been written in such a mediocre book.  Good for you, Courtney.  Congratulations on taking something really positive away from what became an all-encompassing negative time in your life.  Regardless of the situation, that's a tough thing to do.  You're now as free as you were wandering the beach in your yellow bikini prior to the show.  Remember that feeling and seek it in your life.  Oh, and stop returning Metcalf's texts.  

As for your quote on page 227, I think I speak for most of my readers and a large part of Bachelor Nation when I say we feel exactly the same way. . . about The Bachelor.  Comfortable misery, indeed.  

Well, there it is.  I've officially gone above and beyond for all of you.  You're welcome.  The truth is, I actually enjoyed it (a little).  Until next time, take care of yourselves.  In the meantime, if you need me, I'll in my front yard trimming my huge bush.  DP

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Final Episode Bachelorette Andi: Nick Rules

Hello, Readers.  

Well, well, well, I think we'd all agree on the absolute best moment of this season or any other season. . . EVER. . . was the first hand, on-air confirmation that Andi had indeed been stuffed and pounded like Pollo Rollatino (on TV) by three guys in as many months.  I hate to pile on.  Well, no I don't.  I'm hitting the 1 minute clock and I'm going to type every slut insult I can think of.  You can't argue she hasn't earned it.  

Here we go.  

She's like an on ramp, for crying out loud.  

Staahhhhp, is apparently a word she uses only outside the bedroom.  

Her private parts apparently went public.  

Now that the season is over she's going to have to reintroduce her knees to one another.  

She's given more rides than Greyhound.    

The Statue of Liberty has had fewer men inside of her

She has stretch marks on her cheeks

Instead of a lock they should have installed a credit card reader on the Fantasy Suite door

Andi is not as popular as her vagina is

Andi has taken more loads this season than the fat guy in the hat who helped Roz pack her sh*t

"We the People" in the Declaration of Independence doesn't refer to her sex partners

Michelangelo spent less time on his back

AAAANNNDDD Finally . . . .

If this was Star Wars, she'd be cast as Princess Lay-ya

Alright, I'll staaahhhhp.   

Now, I know what a lot of you are thinking.  "Nick's an a*shole.  How dare he. . . ".  Whatever.  Frankly, it's nice to see our heretofore virginal Bachelorette face the music.  If you choose the behavior, you choose the consequences, Andi.  That's a lesson lost on any member of Andi's generation.  

My only regret is that Nick went with "made love" and didn't use a profane word to describe what really happened in the suite or that he didn't make up some unforgettably crude euphemism to memorialize it. 

Can you imagine?  I, like, just, like (insert boneless neck lean on the couch pillow) can't, like, believe that you, like, let me pork you until the sun came up.

On a side note.  I think it's apparent that Ashley and JP can't use the term "porking."  That's a little mixed marriage humor for you folks.  I'll be here all week.  Annnyyyhoooo....  


Why, like, did you, like book a one way ticket on the beef bus to Tunatown?  

Yea, I'm not messing around this week, am I?  And neither was Nick.  Word on the street is that he hates Josh.  What better way to  vent publicly than with the "I slept with your fiancé" smack?  I'll commend him on his subtle delivery.  I'd commend Josh on not reacting, but I honestly don't think he cared.    

It's the finale and I have to go out with a bang . . . or in Andi's case, three bangs.  Can you imagine if Chris and Marcus would have stuck around?  By the time she got Josh in the Fantasy Suite it would have been like throwing a hot dog down a hallway.  Alright, I'll stop beating a dead cat.    

Ironically, Andi spent most of the last few shows in this position

Some of you have stopped reading in horror, some of you are wiping the tears from your eyes, and some of you are writing these down to use them on your friends later this evening.  You're welcome.   

Let's get to the run down, shall we? 

First, let me comment about my watching party last week with Lincee ( Ray who was a wonderful house guest, by the way.  Granted, she did make off with the guest room soap, but that was well worth her company.  I think she's still ashamed at herself for laughing as hard as she did at some of the inappropriate, unprintable comments that came out of my mouth during the show.  She's probably even more ashamed for (allegedly) making a few of her own.  

By the way, speaking of inappropriate, did anyone find the baseless character assassination of Andrew in light of the fact that there was no objective evidence to substantiate the Douche-a-preneur's accusation of a "racist" comment a new low?  

I didn't find Andrew particularly intriguing but I do believe those accusations are having a profound effect in the real world for him.  In my humble, white guy opinion, ABC's selection of Barry White theme music for Marquel during the Bach in Paradise previews last night was more offensive than what Andrew didn't say on a hot mic.  It appears that Marquel is a pretty popular guy on that cesspool of a show.  Good for that guy.  At least he won't have to wait in line like Josh did.  Boom.   

Moving on. 

I've been "the boyfriend" more times than I care to admit in my life.  I've sent flowers, given rides to the airport, acted like Valentine's Day is a legitimate, meaningful holiday, and even attended a Farmer's Market or two.  Never once have I showed up to meet a girl's parents in a sweat drenched silk shirt unbuttoned to my manhood.  How unimpressed did Hy look?  The look of horror covered up by tight-lipped feigned interest on Andi's Mom's face was priceless.  

"Suddenly this loud man shows up sweating and telling us over and over how hot and nervous he is."  Classic.  The look on ole Hy Dorfman's face when Josh asked for his daughter's hand in marriage didn't exactly scream enthusiasm.  

In fact, with the sound off, it looked more like he was struggling to hold a gas problem after too much beer and pizza.  I'm sure this was running through his head while he was pretending (poorly) to like Josh.


It was apparent that he'd been given "The Talk" by the remaining Dorfman's anxious to drink free milk from the ABC mammary glands.  

I can hear Mrs. Dorfman now. 

"Oh, Hy, he's not Mexican or Dominican Republican or whatever like that Juan Carlos was.  He's from Atlanta.  It's a free trip to Puerto Rico or whatever.  It's not like she's going to marry him.  Ees Ok."  

And so it went.  I can't decide who had the worst wardrobe this season.  Andi always looked like she bought a size 14 because TJ Maxx was out of a size 8 but it's ok because it will totally look cute on, especially if I pair it with shorts that are a few sizes too small.  

Nick looked like he had a secret V-neck and Members Only endorsement locked up before the season and Josh, wow.  Let's talk about Josh's suit.  My best guess is that he got sized for that thing prior to eating, drinking, and lying around luxury hotels for 11 weeks.  My next best guess is that his real suit got lost and he was forced to borrow Harrison's suit.  My third best guess is that he washed that thing in scalding hot water.  Either way, it was a horrible fit.  He should have tried on a couple more before settling on that one.  You know, like Andi did.  

Well, there it is, my brief rundown of a boring season.  As always, I'll sincerely wish the happy new couple the best.  After all, I don't have to live with either one of them and they have to live with each other.  The Atlanta connection is a definite plus, as is the superficiality.  They'll do well for a while.  

Let's see if they stay together long enough for him to knock her up so she can go on next season's Men Tell All and show off her cans like Ashley did.  Did you see those things?  They were bigger than her forehead for crying out loud.  I couldn't tell if she was pregnant or just stealing a couple of hams. 

As for Nick.  Well, he'll do fine in spite of his (understandable) cheap shot.  Lionel Ritchie once said, "no one ever wrote a love song in the back of a limousine."  Well, my friends, I'll submit to you that Lionel Ritchie was never shit canned from the Bachelorette.  

THANK YOU.  ALL of you for being patient and kind this season. My life is busy and hectic and it's always a pleasure to write when I can.  Stay tuned in the off season.  

Thanks to some rabidly loyal and super fancy fans of Lincee and me, I've obtained my very own free copy of Courtney Robertson's book "I Didn't Come Here to Make Friends."  Sure, she didn't write it, but I'm going to read it anyway and write a review.  God help me.  At least there are no lovesick vampires or pouting, buck toothed heroines to worry about.  Thank you Molly, Emily, and Alicia for pulling those strings.  For you fans of The View, tune in on Thursday.  Believe it or not Emily is guest hosting.  Slap that Elizabeth Hasselhoff on the rear end for me, will you?  And tell her I loved her dad on Baywatch.  

A special thanks to my (and Mrs. Some Guy's) dear friend, Lincee Ray.  You're one of the most decent people I've ever met.  That  counts more than you realize.  Congrats on Entertainment Weekly and whatever lies beyond the daily grind you bravely left behind. 

To quote the young boy, Lucius, after he speaks with Maximus in Gladiator, "I like you Spaniard.  I shall cheer for you."


Lincee Ray

Take care of yourselves in the off season.  Check in every now and then.  In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be getting my suit taken in. . . while drinking a Lone Star.  DP