Off Season Post 13: Twas the Week Before Bachelor

Hello and Happy Holidays everyone! Frankly, I’m not sure any of you will read this prior to Christmas, but I figured I’d give it a shot. In the spirit of the holidays, I’ve decided to begin a new SGIA Blog Tradition. But first, a little background.

A man named Clement Clarke Moore wrote a poem called “A Visit from St. Nicholas" in 1822. It eventually became known by its first line, “Twas the Night Before Christmas.” Prior to the story St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children, had never been associated with a sleigh or reindeer. The power of the written word is—well---amazing. In tribute to Mr. Moore and his priceless contribution, I have taken the liberty of drafting my own version of the poem in light of the upcoming season of our favorite show. I hope you enjoy it. Oh, after looking at the bios of the women on ABC.com I’m going to go on record early saying that Ashley S. will be the big winner. With that said, let’s get to it.

Twas the Week Before Bachelor
an adaptation by Some Guy in Austin


Twas the week before Bachelor, when all through the house
The DVR was silent, we talked to our spouse.
The vodka was chilled in the freezer with care,
In hopes that Chris Harrison soon would be there.

The contestants were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of rose ceremonies danced in their heads.
And Some Guy with a bottle and a Lone Star bottle cap,
Wondered how many contestants for sure had the Clap.

When out at the Mansion there arose such a clatter,
Harrison sprang from the strip club to see what was the matter.
Away to the Mansion he flew like a flash,
Jumped a big bar stool and threw a stripper some cash.

The moon on the breasts of the girls on the show
Proved there were some women who could never say no.
When, what to Chris Harrison’s eyes should appear,
But a big fat stretch limo, filled with hussies desperate for beer.

With a freshly pressed sport coat, so Money and slick,
Harrison knew in a moment he’d be getting paid quick.
More rapid than eagles the limos they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Ashley! now, Britnee! now, Keltie and Stacey!
On, Cristy! On, Jackie!, on Lauren and Lacey!
To the top of the porch! to Bachelor’s first ball!
Now drink away! Drink away! Drink away all!"

Lone Star after Lone Star was drunk by Some Guy,
As he plotted to watch with his careful, keen eye.
Then up to the Mansion, a new limo it flew,
With the tray full of roses, and the new Bachelor too.

And then, with a twinkling, it was heard on the floor
The prancing and fawning of each little whore.
Desperate and anxious the girls turned around,

Down the hallway The Bachelor came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fleece, from his head to his boots,
And we wondered if the producers and he remained in cahoots.
A bundle of roses he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a douchebag, with the last name Womack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His ears were perked up as if he’d been listening,
And the girls pictured him naked, his abdominals glistening.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And axed the plain women who then called him a jerk.
As the rose bearing women looked down from their noses,
We heard, “say your goodbyes if you don’t have no roses!”

Harrison sprang to his limo and to the tramps gave a whistle,
And flew to the strip club like a giant love missle.
But I heard him exclaim, when he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all! Tune in Monday Night!"

Well, that’s it. I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you to all of you for reading all year, especially those of you who stuck it out with me during the off season. Have a wonderful Christmas or whatever other holiday you celebrate. Have a safe and happy new year. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be writing my apology to the descendants of Clement Clarke Moore. DP

Off Season Post 12: SGIA's Greatest Hits from Jake's Season

Hello Readers and Happy Freaking Holidays! Some Guy is in a jovial mood today and I’ve decided to post a day early. Let’s not get too excited, though. The concept this week is extremely simple. I need to start my Christmas shopping and I’ve got a lot to do between now and Friday.

While looking at my calendar and attempting to accept the reality of my procrastination, it occurred to me that I never go back and read my own work after it’s posted. I entered the Think-It™ world and began clicking on my past entries. It was at that point that I decided to kill two turtle doves with one stone. Like the Eagles, I would publish a greatest hits edition of my work. It’s the perfect time of year for a look back and, like every website I’ve visited today I decided to compile a list of my favorites.

Let me make a few points. As you are all aware, I write the Bachelor(ette) blog from 11pm to 3am every Monday night after the show airs. What you read is literally the first stuff that pops into my head when I watch the show. There is very little, if any, editing that takes place. What you might not be aware of is that because I’m usually a few Lone Stars in the bag and painfully sleep deprived, I often have zero memory of what actually makes it onto the screen in front of me. So reading my past blogs from Jake’s season was like reading someone else’s work for the first time. Weird, huh?

Also, I’ve mentioned before that being “funny” is not a learned skill. Sure, it can be honed and developed, but like singing or drawing, it’s something a person is born with. I learned very early in life that I had the ability to make people laugh and it is the one gift for which I’m most grateful. With that said, it’s interesting to me that I can read my own writing and make myself laugh; not because of my ego or a desire to congratulate myself, but because I write honestly and spontaneously. I think that’s what makes you laugh as well.

In short, when re-reading my entries from Jake’s season which aired from January-March of 2010, I thoroughly enjoyed looking back on what I had created a year ago. Below are some of the lines that made me smile along with some editorial comments in parenthesis. I’m proud of the blog and the effort that I put into it. Thank you all for taking the time to read, comment, email, and share your experiences, laughter, and feedback. You have all made 2010 a creatively interesting and fulfilling year for me. This may sound odd, but I consider all of you my friends. Thank you. I sincerely wish all of you a happy, safe, and relaxing end of the year. Promise me that you will all make at least one person laugh this Holiday Season. When you do, laugh back and enjoy that moment. With that said, let’s get to it. Enjoy DP’s Greatest Hits from Jake’s Season.


“Flying is my art?” Really? The guy is a cargo pilot. That means he flies plane loads full of Chinese junk and rubber dog shit from Dallas to wherever. If that’s art, then this blog is the freaking Mona Lisa. (I never could stand Jake. I actually looked forward to piling on during his season.)

Ed looked semi-drunk and contractually obligated. Jillian looked great in her Ann-Margaret dress but her nose was still big and her Canadian accent was still annoying. By the way, why is Ann-Margaret hyphenated?

For some reason we see Jake shirtless in his backyard with power tools constructing what appears to be a gazebo. A gazebo? Apparently, Jake wants teenagers to have sex in his backyard. Either that or he’s having a bake off for the 4th of July. Odd. (I have no idea why this popped into my head at the sight of a gazebo.)

I can’t stand his Tom Cruise-ish fake charm and stupid “I’m better than you” grin. I hope he picks a crazy one. (I hoped right. Classic.)

Ali—attractive but not too hot. She tells us she’s been dumped for video games and that her ex actually snuck into her roommate’s room to cheat on her while she was sleeping. Hey Ali, you’re bad in bed. Trust me. That’s the problem. Nonetheless, she greets Jake with a peacock feather. Stupid, yes. But props for not going with the flying metaphor. For the intellectuals out there, I’m sure you can appreciate the irony of the peacock being an essentially flightless bird. I’m certain that didn’t dawn on Ali, though. She became the second girl to fall on the first evening when she spirited Jake away for some “private” time. Apparently, someone put too much Everclear in the slut punch. She ripped her dress and laughed it off. It would have been more entertaining if she’d have screamed rape. She also drew the answer of the night when she asked Jake his top priorities. “God, family, friends,” was his answer. What about marriage, you moron? Classic. Despite forgetting her name when it was called, she got a rose. (Our first look at Ali . . . sigh.)

Tenley—We were treated to a montage of her dancing in a bikini on the beach telling us how she toured the world as Cinderella, Belle, and Ariel. God bless her. It’s moments like these when I love this show. The montage was the only thing more gratuitous than Jake’s shower scenes (all 15 of them). However, it was quickly obvious that Tenley’s IQ was only an eightly or a ninely. She was cute and seemed nice—just not bright. Still, she had the nerve to get Jake alone and ask for a kiss. Jake looked horrified. In looking at Jake she might as well have asked him to pee on her. Dude, lighten up—homo. She earned the first impression rose despite giving Jake cooties. Good for you, Tenely.

Vienna—. She’s unemployed, which is odd considering she holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Interpersonal Organization and Communication from the University of Central Florida. Whatever. She tells us that she “loves life.” Translation: I drink a lot and I’ll sleep with anyone. I’ll look forward to seeing her from 1-5 at various auto shows signing her Hooter’s calendar. She got a rose. (Dead solid perfect. I congratulated myself on this one.)

Gia—First of all, that’s a stripper’s name. Strike one. She also had a hair lip (look closely). Strike two. She’s very attractive until she opens her hair lip. She’s what my friends and I would have called a “Dropped French Fry” in high school. It’s kind of dirty, but you’d still eat it. She’ll make it far because Jake’s a tool. Predictably, she got a rose. (Almost, but not quite, DP.)

Michelle—she’s “ready to be a wife.” We quickly find out that she’s nuts with a capital U. Even Ed and Jillian seemed horrified. She was like a better looking, younger version of Kathy Bates in Misery. She’s an Office Manager. Clearly, she manages a Post Office. Jillian characterized her as “emotional.” Right, and the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground. Ed said she was “over sincere.” Translation: she’s off the reservation. She’ll stick around at the producers’ insistence. She got a rose. (Bingo.)

Let’s get to it. Episode two of what I thought was The Bachelor aired on Monday. I say “thought” because it’s quickly turning into Flavor of Love—well, minus the purple hair extensions.

By the way, what is up with that giant helmet? Seriously. Paint that thing white and he might as well be doing a Jack in the Box commercial. You could serve punch out of that thing.

The shirt was unbuttoned just past his testicles. He looked like Tom Jones except without the chest hair, talent, and sex appeal. (Clearly, this was a warm up for DWTS.)

The girls laughed nervously at whatever Jake muttered. He looked about as comfortable as a bastard on Father’s Day. (Solid.)

We again get multiple angle shots of Roslyn’s sizeable bust. I mean those things were big. She could shade a 4 year old at high noon. (Also solid.)

I alluded to this in my last blog and I’ll reiterate it now: Desperation equals Elimination. They should crochet that on a pillow and leave it on Michelle’s bed at the house. She’s out of her mind.

Dude. If Wes Hayden had been selected, every one of those girls—except Michelle—would be pregnant. Watching Jake in action is like watching an ape play with a computer.

Her response to Jake asking her, “how do you like your eggs?” would be “fertilized.” She clearly needs help. I just hope she’s eliminated soon so she can start filming Swimfan II. (Solid Swimfan reference. I wonder if any of you got it.)

Tenley is confident. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word “fear.” Then again, she probably doesn’t know the meaning of a lot words, but I digress.

Maxim number two, Michelle: Desperate and Alone equals Limo Ride Home.

What does it say about Jake when the hottest girl in the mix is lured away by a production guy in black jean shorts and a Che Gueverra t-shirt holding a microphone on a stick? I’ll tell you what it says: Everything. Dude, you just got c*ck blocked by a guy in the production crew. (This was one of my favorite stories of the season. I still smile when I think about Jake whining about Roz going for the Producer.)

It just goes to show that nothing trumps fat, dumpy, and middle-aged quite like the word “Producer” after your name. Nice job, pal. They should double his unemployment check for hooking up with a woman that far out of his league. (Amen)

Jake proved himself to be a word that starts with a “P,” and it’s not “Pilot.” Adventure date, my ass. (Double Amen.)

Michelle takes center stage and the bus leaves the mansion for an on time arrival at the intersection of Crazy Street and Desperation Drive.

As the helicopter shows up Vienna shows us her long face. Oh, and she seemed sad too. (I was kinda mean, wasn’t I?)

I’ll give Vienna credit for trying. No good deed goes unpunished. When she gets a big fat engagement ring in a few weeks she can use it to deflect the insults and negativity hurled her way by the Jealous Janes in the house. That’s right. She’s going to win. (Psychic, I tell you. Psychic.)

Gia finally shows how high maintenance she is by telling us she’s never been on an RV but really hopes it has a good shower. To be fair, I’m sure Gia is used to showering after she rides something for a long time. (I love this one.)

Jake goes in search of Tenley to “find out where her heart is?” What does that even mean? I’ll tell you where it is, you asexual tool, it’s right under her left breast, which is right next to her right breast. Check those out, would you. For God’s sake. (I love this one too.)

He’s sent more women packing than The Indian Removal Act of 1830 (see, Trail of Tears); most of them without a rose ceremony. (Obscure, but I impressed myself at the junior high History class recall.)

I can just see Harrison in his trailer with his necktie loosened and a bottle of gin in one hand getting ready to break out the blow and party with some strippers when the knock on the door comes. “Uh, Jake is crying. He wants to talk to you.” (Perhaps my favorite Jake moment of all time.)

God bless whoever got the task of getting this guy to look macho. Jake is the type of guy who is allergic to his own allergy medicine.

“How about this, Mr. Harrison, you don’t have to make the trip to San Fran this week? We’re really sorry about the mix up.”

“You’re damn right you are.” Harrison—1, Producers—0.

For the Tenthly time we hear the ex-husband cheated on me story and we wonder where her heart really is—well, I didn’t. I was too busy thinking about other stuff, but Jake appeared to be wondering.

We learn that they are going to Chinatown on their date. What? What a ripoff. If Tenley wanted to see a bunch of Asians argue with each other she could have stayed at the hotel and rented Joy Luck Club. (The Asian Steel Magnolias.)

Tenley looked as if she was going burst out in laughter, and we learn that “cheating is a choice.” Unfortunately, a lack of personality isn’t.

In the dirtiest thing said on this show since Channy’s “you can land your plane on my landing strip” line, Gia looks Vienna squarely in the face and says, “you can eat my salmon.” Hey now.

Vienna has probably been on her back more than Michaelangelo. (Yup, I was mean.)

Ali and her caboose get the last one-on-one date and she emerges from her Medusa-like trance. She’s what we used to call “Chicago hot:” great face, large ass.

Yea Ali, I’m sure it’s really difficult to find a sensitive man who loves floral arrangements in downtown San Francisco. To be fair, all of those men already have boyfriends and—thanks to the tireless work of some folks in the Castro—some of them already have hunky husbands like Jake. (I speak the truth.)

He doesn’t let the sun go down without resolving a problem. The other guy didn’t let the sun go down without hooking up with one of Gia’s friends. I found the difference in philosophy fascinating.

Great advice, Mom. I’m sure that will comfort Gia next week when she gets booted like an illegally parked car.

The conversation is about as forced as a post-surgical bowel movement. (Disgusting, but it was an accurate description.)

We learn that her ex-husband—who took more of a beating on the show than Rhianna on Grammy night—just didn’t appreciate her dancing. (Ouch)

In an attempt to one up Gia for her “you can eat my salmon” comment, Vienna asks Jake “have you ever eaten beaver tail?” Jake responds that he has but we all know that’s not true.

Frankly, that was weird but not as weird as when Vienna sees her father and greets him like her prom date after a half a bottle of Boone’s Farm.

Ah yes, there’s nothing like a quaint Caribbean island that was once a stop over on the slave trade where thousands of men were stolen from their African homeland, stripped from their families, strapped into the hull of a ship, and transported thousands of miles across the ocean to be sold as chattel. (Cynical.)

By the way, was there a pilot in the Village People? If not, there should have been. Seeing Jake in his pilot uniform made me realize he would make a good Village Person. (Again, I speak the truth.)

Look, if this guy wants to put his starter home and gazebo at risk by marrying a 23 year old Hooters waitress with a bitter, broke ex-husband and an unhealthy attraction to her own father, so be it. It’s not like he wasn’t warned. (This might be my all time favorite line from Jake’s season.)

Oh, and by the way, I nailed Vienna’s Hooters waitress status in my first episode blog. I’m not sure if the fact that I can pick a Hooters waitress out of a crowd of 25 women is a good thing or if it’s pathetic. What matters is that I was right. After all, life is about the small victories, isn’t it?

Apparently, her job selling ad space for Facebook was not the answer to everything. Go figure. Incidentally, it looked to me like she had plenty of time to brood in the shadows of various San Francisco landmarks. So much for the demands of the office. (I wonder if she has a job in San Diego.)

Getting the first of the three fantasy dates is like being the fat, injured guy in the Donner Party. (So true.)

She tells Jake that she’s never met guy as deep as him. Considering the fact that she’s from New York and that the dating pool consists of guys like Pauly D and The Situation from Jersey Shore, I actually believed her.

Gia looked stunning in her black bikini with pearl straps around her neck. The suit was fitting considering the fact that Jake was not about to give her a pearl necklace. You know, because he already bought her a necklace that day. (Sometimes I work a little blue.)

Jake and Vienna climb to the top of his mast and we get some incredibly shameless shots of Vienna’s crows nest.

I take comfort in knowing that if she and Jake don’t work out, she always has the security of returning to Florida to work at Hooters or in the meth lab her parents run out of the swamp they live in.

We all begin to wonder if the Denton Hooters accepts transfers and offers a relocation package.

I’m sure his intern gave him his talking points over a rum runner and a big fatty at the local St. Lucia strip club. (Harrison is a hero of mine.)

Jake is confused. . . again. Frankly, he’s confused more than Tenley is divorced.

Harrison enters to the deafening cheers of an all female audience—all of whom are undoubtedly disappointed that the online application they filled out for ABC in order to get on the Bachelor was not accepted.

Some fat guy with a wife and a propensity to sneak around rented mansions in the middle of the night just took you to school. It’s a good thing they fired that guy. He might have made a run through the entire cast—including Jake.

I really think Harrison should wear some kind of flashy jacket for these shows; either that or a cape.

Their “charity” consists of forcing chubby, indifferent Hispanic children to paint murals on lifeguard stands to be placed on L.A. beaches so thin, athletic white children can enjoy them after the Hispanic kids are bussed back to East L.A. Having Mexican kids spray paint things. Is there really a shortage of that in L.A.?

Harrison pretends to like the meaningless banter and introduces the next segment with an unbelievable misstatement of fact by referring to the panel as “well-adjusted women.” Right. Well-adjusted. The only things well-adjusted on that stage were the soft lighting and Gia’s nose.

Oh my. I’m certain that guy’s soon-to-be-ex-wife’s lawyer hit rewind on his DVR before refilling his single malt scotch and giggling to himself.

Incidentally, I believe I read somewhere that Pope Benedict XVI was seriously considering granting Tenley an annulment. Apparently, he’s sick of hearing about her divorce too. (I love the thought of the Pope knowing about Tenley. She should dance for him.)

In a stunning Darwinian moment, Jake’s dad immediately begins to cry, proving that the pussy gene is indeed hereditary. (Who knew?)

Jake’s mom asks “is this the one that everyone hated?” and Jake realizes that Vienna is going to have to climb Everest in order to please Mommy Dearest. We pray that Vienna has not made the mistake of hanging her evening dress on a wire coat hanger. (Nothing quite like a Joan Crawford reference to set the mood.)

Tenely arrives appropriately in a white car looking newly virginal and stunning in her hot pink sun dress schlepping a large bouquet of the local flora purchased by a staff member in order to lure the bees away from Jake’s mother’s Heath Ledger perm.

Tenley loaded the bases and then hit the ball out of the park. Frankly, I was shocked at how well it went. She made Snow White look like a whore.

Vienna, who has been repeatedly sacked and pillaged by a series of foreign invaders and is now well-known for her ability to handle large, elaborate balls . . . oh wait, that’s Vienna, Austria. Honest mistake. (I like this one too.)

Vienna arrives the following day to meet the family dressed in an innocent white dress. Frankly, that’s like putting a silk hat on a pig, but at least she cared enough to pretend.

Jake’s mom offers a fake greeting in her orange tank top and black dress. She was obviously still upset that a house fell on her sister. (Nothing is complete without a Wizard of Oz reference.)

However, it is clear that she will never become a teacher. She can’t keep her pupils straight. Alright, that’s a mean cross-eyed joke and I usually don’t tend to attack immutable characteristics. But, since it’s the big finale and all, I figured I’d give it a run. Sorry, Vienna . . . sort of.

Mom makes it clear that she f*cking hates Vienna and the in-laws do their best to let Vienna know that they don’t ever want to be forced to spend Christmas with her.

Jake could fall into a barrel full of boobs and come out sucking his thumb. (A friend’s father used to say that. I’m happy I finally got to use it.)

They coat each other in mud presumably in fear of being attacked by Predator and eventually retire to the hotel where Vienna offers up a poorly written cliché of a note secured by the wedding ring her father gave her when she married him a few years back.

Again evidencing her commitment to the show, Tenley presents Jake with an extremely thoughtful gift book and frame of pictures and forget-me-nots that makes Vienna’s hastily written note look like a bucket of feces before throwing all caution to the wind and letting Jake know that she’s his for the taking. To be fair, she realized that her only hope was to jump right into the pigsty with Vienna. Sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

Jake showers and puts on a purple blouse in order to meet with the highest bidding ring sponsor, Neil Lane, in order to select two diamonds befitting each potential Mrs. Denton Housewife. Jake tells us that “a ring is a promise between two people.” Yea, and it’s also a huge cash layout for something that can be pawned in the event of a break up or the need for more plastic surgery. Ask Vienna’s ex-husband.

Vienna spackles her face and Bondoes her eyelids while bluebirds and rabbits from the Enchanted Forest delicately assist Tenley in putting on her dress over a symphony of whistles.

In lieu of a giant ape, Harrison takes a break from playing shuffleboard and downing screwdrivers at the local resort and arrives just in time to escort Tenley to her demise.

Jake cries and eventually escorts her back to the able emotional safety net that is Chris Harrison and he cries on that giant balcony prior to composing himself in anticipation of throwing the rest of his life into a swamp. We could almost hear Jake’s mother’s arteries hardening.

Vienna arrives in the slutcopter, uses I as a possessive pronoun again, and refers to Jake as her Prince Charming. Jake returns the trinket wedding ring that Vienna’s father gave her and confirms that she and her father are, in fact, divorced before dropping to one knee and ignoring the millions of people screaming at their televisions and choking on their chips and queso in order to propose to Vienna. Vienna uncrosses her eyes for a moment in order to inspect the new hardware and some legal secretary in a Denton divorce lawyer’s office began to type In the Matter of the Marriage of Jake Pavelka, Petitioner v. Vienna Girardi a/k/a Vienna Pavelka, Respondent filed in the District Court of Denton County, Texas, in anticipation of handling the divorce. (Sadly, this never occurred.)

Harrison sets up Tenley’s impending arrival in order to allow Tenley the closure she’s probably no longer seeking but contractually obligated to find.

The cast members of Dancing with the Stars are all women who have appeared nude at one point or another in their careers. This begs the question: Why wasn’t Vienna asked instead of Jake? (I’m thankful Jake wasn’t nude.)

Jake assures Tenely that he was looking for the “magical spark” while they were going through their “journey.” Tenley awaits, patiently listening, but confesses that she clearly doesn’t get the “lack of physical connection” thing and asks Jake for a clarification. “Hey Tenley, Vienna puts out. You don’t,” I screamed at the TV while Jake fumbled around saying that she didn’t have some “intangible, unexplainable thing.” Intangible, unexplainable thing? Yea, loose morals. Come on, Jake. Call a tramp a tramp. To be fair, Jake is used to having satisfying and prolonged sexual experiences. The only difference is that now he has a partner.

My prediction is that Vienna will get tired of him and dump him after several plastic surgeries and a failed attempt at a career in television. I think he chose incorrectly. He made his bed and it’s only a matter of time before he discovers Vienna and another man lying in it without him. (I suppose I was close on this one. Sort of.)

When asked about his attraction to Vienna, Jake actually drops “Vienna is my baby” and the Are-You-F*cking-Kidding Me look on Harrison’s face was priceless.

I’ve seen people with eyes like Vienna before but I had to pay admission and walk into a giant tent first. Vienna finally dyed her roots, which is a shame because it is apparent that she was once dark and pretty—when it got dark outside, she was pretty.

Unlike Tenley, Vienna did not look virginal. In fact, she looked more like a Minneapolis freeway in December—like she gets plowed a lot.

Well, that’s it. My favorite lines from Jake’s season. I’ll try and do them from Ali’s season for the next post. We’re just THREE short weeks away from the big Bachelor premier. You’ll have my take on Womack and a story or two about holiday cheer before that. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! We’ll talk soon. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be warming my cockles. DP

Off Season Post 12: SGIA's Greatest Hits from Jake's Season

Hello Readers and Happy Freaking Holidays! Some Guy is in a jovial mood today and I’ve decided to post a day early. Let’s not get too excited, though. The concept this week is extremely simple. I need to start my Christmas shopping and I’ve got a lot to do between now and Friday.

While looking at my calendar and attempting to accept the reality of my procrastination, it occurred to me that I never go back and read my own work after it’s posted. I entered the Think-It™ world and began clicking on my past entries. It was at that point that I decided to kill two turtle doves with one stone. Like the Eagles, I would publish a greatest hits edition of my work. It’s the perfect time of year for a look back and, like every website I’ve visited today I decided to compile a list of my favorites.

Let me make a few points. As you are all aware, I write the Bachelor(ette) blog from 11pm to 3am every Monday night after the show airs. What you read is literally the first stuff that pops into my head when I watch the show. There is very little, if any, editing that takes place. What you might not be aware of is that because I’m usually a few Lone Stars in the bag and painfully sleep deprived, I often have zero memory of what actually makes it onto the screen in front of me. So reading my past blogs from Jake’s season was like reading someone else’s work for the first time. Weird, huh?

Also, I’ve mentioned before that being “funny” is not a learned skill. Sure, it can be honed and developed, but like singing or drawing, it’s something a person is born with. I learned very early in life that I had the ability to make people laugh and it is the one gift for which I’m most grateful. With that said, it’s interesting to me that I can read my own writing and make myself laugh; not because of my ego or a desire to congratulate myself, but because I write honestly and spontaneously. I think that’s what makes you laugh as well.

In short, when re-reading my entries from Jake’s season which aired from January-March of 2009, I thoroughly enjoyed looking back on what I had created a year ago. Below are some of the lines that made me smile along with some editorial comments in parenthesis. I’m proud of the blog and the effort that I put into it. Thank you all for taking the time to read, comment, email, and share your experiences, laughter, and feedback. You have all made 2010 a creatively interesting and fulfilling year for me. This may sound odd, but I consider all of you my friends. Thank you. I sincerely wish all of you a happy, safe, and relaxing end of the year. Promise me that you will all make at least one person laugh this Holiday Season. When you do, laugh back and enjoy that moment. With that said, let’s get to it. Enjoy DP’s Greatest Hits from Jake’s Season.


“Flying is my art?” Really? The guy is a cargo pilot. That means he flies plane loads full of Chinese junk and rubber dog shit from Dallas to wherever. If that’s art, then this blog is the freaking Mona Lisa. (I never could stand Jake. I actually looked forward to piling on during his season.)

Ed looked semi-drunk and contractually obligated. Jillian looked great in her Ann-Margaret dress but her nose was still big and her Canadian accent was still annoying. By the way, why is Ann-Margaret hyphenated?

For some reason we see Jake shirtless in his backyard with power tools constructing what appears to be a gazebo. A gazebo? Apparently, Jake wants teenagers to have sex in his backyard. Either that or he’s having a bake off for the 4th of July. Odd. (I have no idea why this popped into my head at the sight of a gazebo.)

I can’t stand his Tom Cruise-ish fake charm and stupid “I’m better than you” grin. I hope he picks a crazy one. (I hoped right. Classic.)

Ali—attractive but not too hot. She tells us she’s been dumped for video games and that her ex actually snuck into her roommate’s room to cheat on her while she was sleeping. Hey Ali, you’re bad in bed. Trust me. That’s the problem. Nonetheless, she greets Jake with a peacock feather. Stupid, yes. But props for not going with the flying metaphor. For the intellectuals out there, I’m sure you can appreciate the irony of the peacock being an essentially flightless bird. I’m certain that didn’t dawn on Ali, though. She became the second girl to fall on the first evening when she spirited Jake away for some “private” time. Apparently, someone put too much Everclear in the slut punch. She ripped her dress and laughed it off. It would have been more entertaining if she’d have screamed rape. She also drew the answer of the night when she asked Jake his top priorities. “God, family, friends,” was his answer. What about marriage, you moron? Classic. Despite forgetting her name when it was called, she got a rose. (Our first look at Ali . . . sigh.)

Tenley—We were treated to a montage of her dancing in a bikini on the beach telling us how she toured the world as Cinderella, Belle, and Ariel. God bless her. It’s moments like these when I love this show. The montage was the only thing more gratuitous than Jake’s shower scenes (all 15 of them). However, it was quickly obvious that Tenley’s IQ was only an eightly or a ninely. She was cute and seemed nice—just not bright. Still, she had the nerve to get Jake alone and ask for a kiss. Jake looked horrified. In looking at Jake she might as well have asked him to pee on her. Dude, lighten up—homo. She earned the first impression rose despite giving Jake cooties. Good for you, Tenely.

Vienna—. She’s unemployed, which is odd considering she holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Interpersonal Organization and Communication from the University of Central Florida. Whatever. She tells us that she “loves life.” Translation: I drink a lot and I’ll sleep with anyone. I’ll look forward to seeing her from 1-5 at various auto shows signing her Hooter’s calendar. She got a rose. (Dead solid perfect. I congratulated myself on this one.)

Gia—First of all, that’s a stripper’s name. Strike one. She also had a hair lip (look closely). Strike two. She’s very attractive until she opens her hair lip. She’s what my friends and I would have called a “Dropped French Fry” in high school. It’s kind of dirty, but you’d still eat it. She’ll make it far because Jake’s a tool. Predictably, she got a rose. (Almost, but not quite, DP.)

Michelle—she’s “ready to be a wife.” We quickly find out that she’s nuts with a capital U. Even Ed and Jillian seemed horrified. She was like a better looking, younger version of Kathy Bates in Misery. She’s an Office Manager. Clearly, she manages a Post Office. Jillian characterized her as “emotional.” Right, and the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground. Ed said she was “over sincere.” Translation: she’s off the reservation. She’ll stick around at the producers’ insistence. She got a rose. (Bingo.)

Let’s get to it. Episode two of what I thought was The Bachelor aired on Monday. I say “thought” because it’s quickly turning into Flavor of Love—well, minus the purple hair extensions.

By the way, what is up with that giant helmet? Seriously. Paint that thing white and he might as well be doing a Jack in the Box commercial. You could serve punch out of that thing.

The shirt was unbuttoned just past his testicles. He looked like Tom Jones except without the chest hair, talent, and sex appeal. (Clearly, this was a warm up for DWTS.)

The girls laughed nervously at whatever Jake muttered. He looked about as comfortable as a bastard on Father’s Day. (Solid.)

We again get multiple angle shots of Roslyn’s sizeable bust. I mean those things were big. She could shade a 4 year old at high noon. (Also solid.)

I alluded to this in my last blog and I’ll reiterate it now: Desperation equals Elimination. They should crochet that on a pillow and leave it on Michelle’s bed at the house. She’s out of her mind.

Dude. If Wes Hayden had been selected, every one of those girls—except Michelle—would be pregnant. Watching Jake in action is like watching an ape play with a computer.

Her response to Jake asking her, “how do you like your eggs?” would be “fertilized.” She clearly needs help. I just hope she’s eliminated soon so she can start filming Swimfan II. (Solid Swimfan reference. I wonder if any of you got it.)

Tenley is confident. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word “fear.” Then again, she probably doesn’t know the meaning of a lot words, but I digress.

Maxim number two, Michelle: Desperate and Alone equals Limo Ride Home.

What does it say about Jake when the hottest girl in the mix is lured away by a production guy in black jean shorts and a Che Gueverra t-shirt holding a microphone on a stick? I’ll tell you what it says: Everything. Dude, you just got c*ck blocked by a guy in the production crew. (This was one of my favorite stories of the season. I still smile when I think about Jake whining about Roz going for the Producer.)

It just goes to show that nothing trumps fat, dumpy, and middle-aged quite like the word “Producer” after your name. Nice job, pal. They should double his unemployment check for hooking up with a woman that far out of his league. (Amen)

Jake proved himself to be a word that starts with a “P,” and it’s not “Pilot.” Adventure date, my ass. (Double Amen.)

Michelle takes center stage and the bus leaves the mansion for an on time arrival at the intersection of Crazy Street and Desperation Drive.

As the helicopter shows up Vienna shows us her long face. Oh, and she seemed sad too. (I was kinda mean, wasn’t I?)

I’ll give Vienna credit for trying. No good deed goes unpunished. When she gets a big fat engagement ring in a few weeks she can use it to deflect the insults and negativity hurled her way by the Jealous Janes in the house. That’s right. She’s going to win. (Psychic, I tell you. Psychic.)

Gia finally shows how high maintenance she is by telling us she’s never been on an RV but really hopes it has a good shower. To be fair, I’m sure Gia is used to showering after she rides something for a long time. (I love this one.)

Jake goes in search of Tenley to “find out where her heart is?” What does that even mean? I’ll tell you where it is, you asexual tool, it’s right under her left breast, which is right next to her right breast. Check those out, would you. For God’s sake. (I love this one too.)

He’s sent more women packing than The Indian Removal Act of 1830 (see, Trail of Tears); most of them without a rose ceremony. (Obscure, but I impressed myself at the junior high History class recall.)

I can just see Harrison in his trailer with his necktie loosened and a bottle of gin in one hand getting ready to break out the blow and party with some strippers when the knock on the door comes. “Uh, Jake is crying. He wants to talk to you.” (Perhaps my favorite Jake moment of all time.)

God bless whoever got the task of getting this guy to look macho. Jake is the type of guy who is allergic to his own allergy medicine.

“How about this, Mr. Harrison, you don’t have to make the trip to San Fran this week? We’re really sorry about the mix up.”

“You’re damn right you are.” Harrison—1, Producers—0.

For the Tenthly time we hear the ex-husband cheated on me story and we wonder where her heart really is—well, I didn’t. I was too busy thinking about other stuff, but Jake appeared to be wondering.

We learn that they are going to Chinatown on their date. What? What a ripoff. If Tenley wanted to see a bunch of Asians argue with each other she could have stayed at the hotel and rented Joy Luck Club. (The Asian Steel Magnolias.)

Tenley looked as if she was going burst out in laughter, and we learn that “cheating is a choice.” Unfortunately, a lack of personality isn’t.

In the dirtiest thing said on this show since Channy’s “you can land your plane on my landing strip” line, Gia looks Vienna squarely in the face and says, “you can eat my salmon.” Hey now.

Vienna has probably been on her back more than Michaelangelo. (Yup, I was mean.)

Ali and her caboose get the last one-on-one date and she emerges from her Medusa-like trance. She’s what we used to call “Chicago hot:” great face, large ass.

Yea Ali, I’m sure it’s really difficult to find a sensitive man who loves floral arrangements in downtown San Francisco. To be fair, all of those men already have boyfriends and—thanks to the tireless work of some folks in the Castro—some of them already have hunky husbands like Jake. (I speak the truth.)

He doesn’t let the sun go down without resolving a problem. The other guy didn’t let the sun go down without hooking up with one of Gia’s friends. I found the difference in philosophy fascinating.

Great advice, Mom. I’m sure that will comfort Gia next week when she gets booted like an illegally parked car.

The conversation is about as forced as a post-surgical bowel movement. (Disgusting, but it was an accurate description.)

We learn that her ex-husband—who took more of a beating on the show than Rhianna on Grammy night—just didn’t appreciate her dancing. (Ouch)

In an attempt to one up Gia for her “you can eat my salmon” comment, Vienna asks Jake “have you ever eaten beaver tail?” Jake responds that he has but we all know that’s not true.

Frankly, that was weird but not as weird as when Vienna sees her father and greets him like her prom date after a half a bottle of Boone’s Farm.

Ah yes, there’s nothing like a quaint Caribbean island that was once a stop over on the slave trade where thousands of men were stolen from their African homeland, stripped from their families, strapped into the hull of a ship, and transported thousands of miles across the ocean to be sold as chattel. (Cynical.)

By the way, was there a pilot in the Village People? If not, there should have been. Seeing Jake in his pilot uniform made me realize he would make a good Village Person. (Again, I speak the truth.)

Look, if this guy wants to put his starter home and gazebo at risk by marrying a 23 year old Hooters waitress with a bitter, broke ex-husband and an unhealthy attraction to her own father, so be it. It’s not like he wasn’t warned. (This might be my all time favorite line from Jake’s season.)

Oh, and by the way, I nailed Vienna’s Hooters waitress status in my first episode blog. I’m not sure if the fact that I can pick a Hooters waitress out of a crowd of 25 women is a good thing or if it’s pathetic. What matters is that I was right. After all, life is about the small victories, isn’t it?

Apparently, her job selling ad space for Facebook was not the answer to everything. Go figure. Incidentally, it looked to me like she had plenty of time to brood in the shadows of various San Francisco landmarks. So much for the demands of the office. (I wonder if she has a job in San Diego.)

Getting the first of the three fantasy dates is like being the fat, injured guy in the Donner Party. (So true.)

She tells Jake that she’s never met guy as deep as him. Considering the fact that she’s from New York and that the dating pool consists of guys like Pauly D and The Situation from Jersey Shore, I actually believed her.

Gia looked stunning in her black bikini with pearl straps around her neck. The suit was fitting considering the fact that Jake was not about to give her a pearl necklace. You know, because he already bought her a necklace that day. (Sometimes I work a little blue.)

Jake and Vienna climb to the top of his mast and we get some incredibly shameless shots of Vienna’s crows nest.

I take comfort in knowing that if she and Jake don’t work out, she always has the security of returning to Florida to work at Hooters or in the meth lab her parents run out of the swamp they live in.

We all begin to wonder if the Denton Hooters accepts transfers and offers a relocation package.

I’m sure his intern gave him his talking points over a rum runner and a big fatty at the local St. Lucia strip club. (Harrison is a hero of mine.)

Jake is confused. . . again. Frankly, he’s confused more than Tenley is divorced.

Harrison enters to the deafening cheers of an all female audience—all of whom are undoubtedly disappointed that the online application they filled out for ABC in order to get on the Bachelor was not accepted.

Some fat guy with a wife and a propensity to sneak around rented mansions in the middle of the night just took you to school. It’s a good thing they fired that guy. He might have made a run through the entire cast—including Jake.

I really think Harrison should wear some kind of flashy jacket for these shows; either that or a cape.

Their “charity” consists of forcing chubby, indifferent Hispanic children to paint murals on lifeguard stands to be placed on L.A. beaches so thin, athletic white children can enjoy them after the Hispanic kids are bussed back to East L.A. Having Mexican kids spray paint things. Is there really a shortage of that in L.A.?

Harrison pretends to like the meaningless banter and introduces the next segment with an unbelievable misstatement of fact by referring to the panel as “well-adjusted women.” Right. Well-adjusted. The only things well-adjusted on that stage were the soft lighting and Gia’s nose.

Oh my. I’m certain that guy’s soon-to-be-ex-wife’s lawyer hit rewind on his DVR before refilling his single malt scotch and giggling to himself.

Incidentally, I believe I read somewhere that Pope Benedict XVI was seriously considering granting Tenley an annulment. Apparently, he’s sick of hearing about her divorce too. (I love the thought of the Pope knowing about Tenley. She should dance for him.)

In a stunning Darwinian moment, Jake’s dad immediately begins to cry, proving that the pussy gene is indeed hereditary. (Who knew?)

Jake’s mom asks “is this the one that everyone hated?” and Jake realizes that Vienna is going to have to climb Everest in order to please Mommy Dearest. We pray that Vienna has not made the mistake of hanging her evening dress on a wire coat hanger. (Nothing quite like a Joan Crawford reference to set the mood.)

Tenely arrives appropriately in a white car looking newly virginal and stunning in her hot pink sun dress schlepping a large bouquet of the local flora purchased by a staff member in order to lure the bees away from Jake’s mother’s Heath Ledger perm.

Tenley loaded the bases and then hit the ball out of the park. Frankly, I was shocked at how well it went. She made Snow White look like a whore.

Vienna, who has been repeatedly sacked and pillaged by a series of foreign invaders and is now well-known for her ability to handle large, elaborate balls . . . oh wait, that’s Vienna, Austria. Honest mistake. (I like this one too.)

Vienna arrives the following day to meet the family dressed in an innocent white dress. Frankly, that’s like putting a silk hat on a pig, but at least she cared enough to pretend.

Jake’s mom offers a fake greeting in her orange tank top and black dress. She was obviously still upset that a house fell on her sister. (Nothing is complete without a Wizard of Oz reference.)

However, it is clear that she will never become a teacher. She can’t keep her pupils straight. Alright, that’s a mean cross-eyed joke and I usually don’t tend to attack immutable characteristics. But, since it’s the big finale and all, I figured I’d give it a run. Sorry, Vienna . . . sort of.

Mom makes it clear that she f*cking hates Vienna and the in-laws do their best to let Vienna know that they don’t ever want to be forced to spend Christmas with her.

Jake could fall into a barrel full of boobs and come out sucking his thumb. (A friend’s father used to say that. I’m happy I finally got to use it.)

They coat each other in mud presumably in fear of being attacked by Predator and eventually retire to the hotel where Vienna offers up a poorly written cliché of a note secured by the wedding ring her father gave her when she married him a few years back.

Again evidencing her commitment to the show, Tenley presents Jake with an extremely thoughtful gift book and frame of pictures and forget-me-nots that makes Vienna’s hastily written note look like a bucket of feces before throwing all caution to the wind and letting Jake know that she’s his for the taking. To be fair, she realized that her only hope was to jump right into the pigsty with Vienna. Sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

Jake showers and puts on a purple blouse in order to meet with the highest bidding ring sponsor, Neil Lane, in order to select two diamonds befitting each potential Mrs. Denton Housewife. Jake tells us that “a ring is a promise between two people.” Yea, and it’s also a huge cash layout for something that can be pawned in the event of a break up or the need for more plastic surgery. Ask Vienna’s ex-husband.

Vienna spackles her face and Bondoes her eyelids while bluebirds and rabbits from the Enchanted Forest delicately assist Tenley in putting on her dress over a symphony of whistles.

In lieu of a giant ape, Harrison takes a break from playing shuffleboard and downing screwdrivers at the local resort and arrives just in time to escort Tenley to her demise.

Jake cries and eventually escorts her back to the able emotional safety net that is Chris Harrison and he cries on that giant balcony prior to composing himself in anticipation of throwing the rest of his life into a swamp. We could almost hear Jake’s mother’s arteries hardening.

Vienna arrives in the slutcopter, uses I as a possessive pronoun again, and refers to Jake as her Prince Charming. Jake returns the trinket wedding ring that Vienna’s father gave her and confirms that she and her father are, in fact, divorced before dropping to one knee and ignoring the millions of people screaming at their televisions and choking on their chips and queso in order to propose to Vienna. Vienna uncrosses her eyes for a moment in order to inspect the new hardware and some legal secretary in a Denton divorce lawyer’s office began to type In the Matter of the Marriage of Jake Pavelka, Petitioner v. Vienna Girardi a/k/a Vienna Pavelka, Respondent filed in the District Court of Denton County, Texas, in anticipation of handling the divorce. (Sadly, this never occurred.)

Harrison sets up Tenley’s impending arrival in order to allow Tenley the closure she’s probably no longer seeking but contractually obligated to find.

The cast members of Dancing with the Stars are all women who have appeared nude at one point or another in their careers. This begs the question: Why wasn’t Vienna asked instead of Jake? (I’m thankful Jake wasn’t nude.)

Jake assures Tenely that he was looking for the “magical spark” while they were going through their “journey.” Tenley awaits, patiently listening, but confesses that she clearly doesn’t get the “lack of physical connection” thing and asks Jake for a clarification. “Hey Tenley, Vienna puts out. You don’t,” I screamed at the TV while Jake fumbled around saying that she didn’t have some “intangible, unexplainable thing.” Intangible, unexplainable thing? Yea, loose morals. Come on, Jake. Call a tramp a tramp. To be fair, Jake is used to having satisfying and prolonged sexual experiences. The only difference is that now he has a partner.

My prediction is that Vienna will get tired of him and dump him after several plastic surgeries and a failed attempt at a career in television. I think he chose incorrectly. He made his bed and it’s only a matter of time before he discovers Vienna and another man lying in it without him. (I suppose I was close on this one. Sort of.)

When asked about his attraction to Vienna, Jake actually drops “Vienna is my baby” and the Are-You-F*cking-Kidding Me look on Harrison’s face was priceless.

I’ve seen people with eyes like Vienna before but I had to pay admission and walk into a giant tent first. Vienna finally dyed her roots, which is a shame because it is apparent that she was once dark and pretty—when it got dark outside, she was pretty.

Unlike Tenley, Vienna did not look virginal. In fact, she looked more like a Minneapolis freeway in December—like she gets plowed a lot.

Well, that’s it. My favorite lines from Jake’s season. I’ll try and do them from Ali’s season for the next post. We’re just THREE short weeks away from the big Bachelor premier. You’ll have my take on Womack and a story or two about holiday cheer before that. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! We’ll talk soon. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be warming my cockles. DP

Off Season Post 11: Surviving the Break Up

Hello and welcome back. It’s been almost two weeks since my last post and I’m certain you’re all squirming in your chairs to see what’s on my mind today. Well, I’m not sure if that’s accurate. Perhaps you’re all begging for an entry in order to escape whatever it is you do for a living for a few minutes. I hope I don’t disappoint.

We’re at that time of year when school teachers work retail to supplement their incomes in hopes of taking that Sandals vacation to St. Wherever in order to escape the confines of their respective school districts and go absolutely nuts knowing that they will not run into the Room Mother at the local watering hole. Children listen to their parents and parents find a way to hide the big gifts. Grandparents over purchase in a passive aggressive effort to get back at their children. Sales people stop pretending to work and actually don’t work. Office staffers incessantly count up their remaining comp time in order to blow their remaining days in exchange for day time trips to the mall or the grocery store. Those of us with professional licenses conspire with each other to put off every deadline and obligation until at least the second week of January.

Ahh yes, the year-end shirking of responsibility. It’s really the only true holiday tradition, isn’t it? It knows no religious, economic, or social boundaries. Indeed, it’s something we all share and something that brings us together. It’s like the laughter of children or France’s love for Jerry Lewis. Let’s all take the time to remember that this holiday season. When you’re standing in line at whatever overcrowded store beckons you during the waning hours of shopping season, give a stranger a familiar nod and take comfort in knowing that, like you, that stranger has lied to his boss.

Yes sir, there’s magic in the air. Well, for some of you, that “magic” is either frost or smog, but even the pollution carries with it the sweet, sugary taste of Christmas cookies and holiday cheer this time of year. Inhale deeply and enjoy it. I’m sure that the traditions you observe are ripe reminders of the joy of the season. Personally, I get very excited when I get to go up to the dark recesses of my top closet shelf and gently lift the otherwise obscure wooden box that resides there for 11 months of the year off the shelf. I bring it down quietly and I savor the moments of anticipation before opening it. I take out its contents, dust it off, and smile as I put on my version of holiday cheer. Yes readers, it’s that time of year. It’s time for me to break out my mistletoe belt buckle. I’m sure you have a similar tradition and I can only hope it brings you as much satisfaction as mine.

This week’s shout out goes to a reader named Kelly C. who sent me an email last week suggesting that I address the universal issue of Surviving the Breakup. I immediately liked the idea for two reasons. First, it would allow me to aggressively vent by passively making reference to all of my old girlfriends who made my life miserable at one time or another. There’s nothing like an opportunity to take an unobstructed cheap shot and I have to admit, I’m not above it. Second, it would give me the chance to put my male perspective to good use. This blog, after all, is read mostly by women. For the men reading, I promise not to give away the farm.

As I continued to read Kelly’s email, I sensed a deeper purpose for her request. She informed me that she recently ended a long term relationship and is dealing with that difficult readjustment to life as a single person that we’ve all been through at one time or another in our lives. Before I begin my generic analysis, allow me to offer a few words of encouragement to Kelly C.

He’s an as*hole who didn’t deserve the abundance of selfless love and affection that you showered upon him like pollen into a thirsty flower day after day. He’s selfish and uncaring and while you had some good times, his true colors are finally showing. Your friends never liked him anyway, but they just pretended to because you seemed happy. Now that the horse if out of the barn they can speak freely. He will end up like any man who abandons a good woman. He’ll drink too much, eat too much, and sit on the couch. He’ll grow soft and unattractive and the miserable failure of his next relationship will be God’s punishment for rejecting one of His angels. You’ll be better off. You’re way too pretty and cute for him.

Alright, I don’t technically know Kelly or her ex-boyfriend, but I heard that entire paragraph while eavesdropping on a man-hating powwow at a wine bar one night. I’m glad that I’m finally able to put it to use. Hang in there, Kelly. This too shall pass. With that said, let’s get to it.

I’ve written about several subjects over the past few months, but I don’t think that any are as personal as Surviving the Breakup. Let me qualify the remainder of this post by saying that there is nothing more agonizing than supporting a friend (male or female) through a break up. The first few weeks of any of the fallout of the demolition of a long-term relationship consist of listening to that friend whine for hours about every aspect of the relationship. It’s a painful yet essential role of a true friend.

It should be noted that single friends are much better people to discuss these nuances with than married people. Married people view all single break ups like ridiculous, almost imperceptible bumps in the road. There’s an irony to this stance, though. As married people they are in the unique position of understanding immeasurable frustration and hopelessness; the staples of any new break up. However, because of their married status they can’t see the down side of being set free like those oil covered Gulf coast birds that have been rescued, cleaned, and nursed back to health. It’s truly a paradox.

Crying on the shoulder of a married person about a single person break up is like telling a person with children that even though you don’t have children you can relate to them because you have a dog or a cat. Despite the dog lovers out there who are shaking their heads in disbelief it just isn’t the same thing. Cats and dogs don’t share your DNA and they don’t become little versions of you. They don’t make you sloppily handwritten drawings with the words “I love you, Mommy” scrawled with care across the center of them and smile from ear to ear when you put them on the refrigerator.

Also, unless you’re married to Brad Pitt, you can’t just run down to the local shelter and pick up a few kids for free. You can’t put your kid in a cage for 8 hours and forget to return home to let him out to pee because you decide to get just one more margarita at happy hour and you can’t leave your kid in the laundry room with bowls of food and water and his favorite blanket. Well, I suppose you could, but CPS would eventually bring that a screeching halt.

On the other hand, you’ll never scar a dog or a cat for life. Your dog will always think you’re the coolest person in the entire world and your cat will always simply tolerate your existence but feign interest from time to time when it suits his cause. Your dog will never sneak out of the house to make out with her boyfriend at 3am and then lie to you about it and your cat will never steal money from your purse and then deny it. Pets are wonderful but they aren’t kids. At any rate, after getting broken up with, it is important to choose the correct people to talk to. I guess that’s my point.

In selecting your Misery Bearing Posse (hereinafter referred to as “MBP”) it is important to prepare yourself for the initial venting of the frustrations session. Truth be told, this is the most important session because it lays the foundation for future meetings at various wine bars and other drinking establishments where groups of embittered women gather to castigate the latest friend-dumping scoundrel.

The ideal number of people in the MBP is, of course, five (plus you). Assuming you remain neutral, this allows for a majority vote on all issues and provides you with the ever-important swing vote in the event that a member of your MBP is forced to miss a meeting. In addition, the average sitting area at a wine bar is designed for 5-8 people, thereby ensuring that the MBP will always have an effective, comfortable place to conduct its activities.

Balance is the first factor to consider in the selection of the MBP. First, the Man-Hater is essential to the mix. This is the one friend who winces in anger at the sound of the word “penis” and takes the mere existence of the male species as an affront to her happiness. Maybe she was wronged by Mr. Right. Maybe her Daddy didn’t love her. Whatever the reason, the Man Hater is not an optional component of the MBP. Everyone knows at least one of these. She’ll enlist early and anxiously with the same fervor as every Southern man named Jeb during the Civil War.

Second, to offset the vitriolic venom spewing from every orifice of the Man Hater, it is essential to have the Voice of Reason. This is the friend who simply loves everyone and has a real belief that every person is truly a good person. She will serve as sort of a core meltdown preventer keeping the Man Hater from exploding. She’s like those sprinkler heads in office buildings or the steam release valve on a furnace. She’s the Ying to the over-aggressive Yang of the Man Hater.

Book ends in place, it is now essential to pick your three middle-of-the-road MBP members. First, there’s the Romantic. This is the person who simply believes that every relationship starts and ends with infinite passion and positivity. She reads only books with covers of shirtless, raven-haired Indians in various stages of passion with vulnerable porcelain-skinned frontier women surrendering to the impending ravishing by a stranger in a foreign land. She believes in the power of love and the dating Bible called Men are From Mars and Women are From Venus. She’s usually the pivot point between the Man Hater and the Voice of Reason. Both of them secretly hate her guts. Obnoxious? Yes. Essential? Definitely.

Next is the female equivalent of Judas Iscariot. We’ll call her Judy Iscariot. This is usually the first friend over to the apartment with a bottle of chardonnay and two glasses after the break up. It never occurs to you to ask her how she knew about the break up, but she knew. She’s only interested in participating because of the information she’ll gather and she’ll automatically turn it right over to her boyfriend, who is invariably the best friend of your ex. Judy has known about the ex’s philandering for over a year now and hasn’t said a word. She knew about the break up before you did. She can’t be trusted, but in your state of vulnerability, you’ll ignore her proximity and access to the enemy camp.

Rounding out the group is the Stranger. This is the disinterested, usually hot, single friend of Judy Iscariot. She’s the girl that knows all of the really bad things that Judy does in her time away from the core group. The Stranger doesn’t say much and isn’t a staple around the wine bar. She’s the person who nods in sympathy as you cry about being wronged. She’s also the person that will inevitably be the next in line to sleep with your ex-boyfriend—if she hasn’t already. Of course, you won’t find out about this for a year when you run into her, your ex, Judy, and her boyfriend at some random location sharing a cheese plate and some hummus.

MBP in place, it is essential to craft a viable strategy for break up survival. Usually, this entails some shopping therapy, a trip to an upscale liquor store to purchase wine and the equivalent of chocolate covered truffles or bonbons, and a few nights on the couch in front of the television devouring the aforementioned wine and bonbons while watching The Sweetest Thing or Under the Tuscan Sun or—in the most extreme cases—Fatal Attraction. Post work trips to wine bars and any place with an outdoor patio and cute, college-aged waiters soon follow.

Halt. This is where Some Guy in Austin steps in. Allow me to offer my male perspective on Surviving the Break Up and—depending on your ultimate goal—some solid solutions to the mysteries of male, post-break up behavior. Here goes.

By the way, I’m well aware that there are a significant number of readers who, upon getting to my Under the Tuscan Sun reference, smiled, sighed, and said to themselves, “I LOVE that movie . . .”. You’re so predictable. Annnyyyyyhoooo . . .

SGIA Tip #1. Make a Decision. Trust me on this one. There is nothing less appealing to a man than a woman who simply has no idea what she wants. Taking twenty minutes to select an entrée in a restaurant with six things on the menu, pondering the wine list for another twenty, or milling around the clearance racks at Express or Urban Outfitters while we sit there in the Guy Chair holding your purse is enough to drive us crazy. We scream inside like The Man in the Iron Mask longing to be released from his cell in order to exact his revenge. Add in a break up and this is especially true.

Decide early if you want the guy back or if you’ll tough it out and move on. Communicate that decision to the ex and stick with it. Teary phone calls, desperate texts, or soppy equivocating emails push us further away. If there’s any hope of reconciliation, indecisiveness on your part will kill it. Watch the opening scene of Swingers. Ron Livingston sums it up perfectly when talking to John Favreau.

SGIA Tip #2. Call off Your Posse. Jilted women tend to share their misery with all of their friends and significant male bashing is an important part of that ritual. Given the opportunity, the Man Hater will go rogue and semi-stalk the ex in public. Drinks in the face, fights with the new girl, and keyed cars are examples of what happens if the MBP isn’t duly warned to keep its distance. Being supportive is one thing. Seeking to destroy another person’s life is another. It’s a hell of a lot easier to move on if the break occurs cleanly. The less drama the better as far as a man is concerned. It’s often that silence that causes a man to actually sit down and think about the good in a past relationship. If we want to reconcile, we know where to look for you. If your friends do something foolish, it ruins everything.

SGIA Tip #3. Get a Hobby. Take up a new interest or tackle something that the relationship did not allow you to do. If that happens to be that delicious looking bell guy at the hotel across the street from your office building, so be it. Just get an interest besides the break up. You’ll be able to dissolve the MBP much earlier than anticipated and you’ll find a new outlet in the process. Fresh starts are good things. Fresh bell boys can be too.

SGIA Tip #4. Be Honest. I mean be honest with everyone. After the weekly (or bi-weekly depending on the severity of the situation) meeting of the MBP you are usually inundated with advice about how to handle various situations. This usually includes such staples as: Don’t call him. Don’t talk to him. Don’t respond to his emails. Send his stuff back to him. Unfriend him on Facebook. Burn his pictures. I could go on, but you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Now we all know that when left alone with our thoughts in the context of a break up, our minds will wander. Phone calls are made, texts are sent, meetings are arranged, mistakes are made. We all know that, but we all lie like Bill Clinton at a press conference when confronted by our friends. We do the same thing to our ex when asked about the reaction of our friends. Being honest to everyone around you about the breakup, your mistakes, your desires, and your faults is essential to allowing the healing process to start and the correct advice to be doled out. Once the cards are on the table, there’s nothing to hide anymore. That’s a good feeling and it’s one less thing to worry about while you’re sneaking off to the coat closet with Mr. Bell Guy during your lunch hour.

SGIA Tip #5. Embrace the Break Up. Men are much better at women than doing this step but are much less effective at the other steps. What do I mean by “embrace the break up”? Look, after any long term relationship ends—friendship, marriage, engagement, etc.—it is necessary to recognize that the grieving of that relationship is a uniquely personal and absolutely essential process. Jumping too early into another relationship without healing the wounds is an invitation to a disaster to which no Save the Date magnet will be mailed.

You’re going to be sad. Be sad. Cry, scream, mope, pout, and eat your bonbons. It’s normal and healthy to feel sad. Allow that to happen instead of trying to fight it.

You’re going to be angry. See “Get a Hobby.” Like sadness, anger is a natural emotion. Just don’t let it get the best of you. You’ll find that it’s possible to reconcile, move on, or be friends with an ex if anger is correctly managed. It it’s not, you end up boiling live bunnies in his house and stalking him at sporting events. Don’t be that girl.

You’re going to be tired. A big break up is a mentally and physically exhausting event. Don’t punish yourself by wallowing in it. Take the time to take care of yourself. Use the wine bar to vent and then use the chin up bar at the gym.

You’re going to be fine. No end to any relationship can steal from you who you are as a person. The choices you make following that break up can, though. Be vigilant. Be thoughtful. Listen to yourself and eventually you’ll realize that with time comes perspective. Like a great book, you may never forget about your ex. You’ll always feel his presence on the shelf and that relationship will be indelibly written into your soul. Take what was good and appreciate it. Take what was bad and don’t repeat it.

Well, there it is. My tips on surviving the break up. Good or bad, I think we all realize that time doesn’t slow up for us to get over a relationship. Speaking of time, we’re only 3 weeks out from the debut of our favorite show. Send me your final off season feedback and ideas. The next post will be my final in this series of Off Season Posts and then I’ll return to Bachelor topics, including the much awaited analysis of Mr. Womack.

Enjoy your wine and bonbons. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be polishing my mistletoe belt buckle. DP

Off Season Post 10: Bailey, Banks, & Bulls*it.

Hello and welcome back from the overeating fest we all refer to as Thanksgiving. I hope the holiday provided some much needed relief from life’s daily stressors. I’m thrilled to inform everyone that my Thanksgiving was both relaxing and eventful at the same time. I’m posting on Thursday this week because the mound of extra work I left on my desk was screaming my name when I high tailed it out of the office last Wednesday like the French army when the Germans came goose stepping down the Champs-Elysees. I had to catch up. Alright, that reference was a little unfair, but I did watch a bunch of History Channel this weekend too.

I have three subjects I want to prognosticate about this week and I appreciate—as I always do—you taking the time out of your lives to humor me, if not for just a few fleeting moments. I also need some suggestions for upcoming blog topics and beg you for some feedback. We’re headed at warp speed toward the biggest season of the year and I want to make sure I’m doing my part to keep you entertained.

Sore muscles, paper cuts, shopping dilemmas, travel plans, over-eating fears, the dreaded in-laws, toy stores, school plays, plane tickets, bad weather, and the overall holiday experience can rob us of all the fun. Somehow, holiday cheer always manages to peek out from behind the curtain, though, and if we’re not careful we’ll miss it. With that said, let’s get to it.

Well, let’s not get to it quite yet. I need to purge myself of some mixed emotions before I assume the Some Guy persona. I found out recently that a friend of mine—check that---This person is not really a “friend” per se. I can’t say that we know a lot about each other. I can’t say that we’ve ever spent a significant amount of time together. I can say that we know each other and sometimes that’s enough to know that a friendship would blossom if given the chance. I recently found out that this person is strongly considering moving across the country and that bums me out.

He or She is really not the issue. This isn’t about lost love or a broken heart. This is more about regret. It’s about not picking up the phone when I should have. It’s about being afraid to take a chance. It’s about not knowing what could have been. I’ve missed a few of those moments in my life and as I get older I regret them even more. I’ll think about that this holiday season and I’ll try and correct that in the future. There are few things sadder in life than the loss of something great because of the failure to act. I’m a bit sad today and I felt compelled to share. Thanks for listening.

NOW—let’s get to it.

For those of you who pay attention to nuance, you’ll undoubtedly know that Some Guy in Austin’s birthday is quickly approaching. It’s December 4th to be exact. It’s that one chance we get every seven or eight years to celebrate a birthday on a Saturday.

Unfortunately, I’m not feeling very “birthday-y” this year. It’s not because I feel old or because no one loves me. I’m just not that into it this year, which brings me to my point. It’s MY birthday isn’t it? That means I have the exclusive right to determine what I do that evening, doesn’t it? You’d think so.

I’ve received a few calls from friends who offered to plan something for me and I politely declined. I don’t want to have anyone buy me dinner. I don’t want to dress up. I don’t want to run around Downtown in a tiara and sash announcing to the world the day I was pulled bloody and screaming from my mother’s uterus. I just want to hang out.

I’ll drink a few Lone Stars, take a single shot of whiskey, and two step the night away. If anyone wants to show up, so be it, but I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do. Besides, I forgot to send out Save the Date cards 6 months ago and without a picture of me on a refrigerator magnet reminding people about my “special day.” I have no confidence that a last minute party will materialize.

I also think that—like most things in life—the people who care about me most will be there with me regardless of an event, free booze, or a refrigerator magnet. Those are the people I want around me on my birthday. Let’s face it. An invitation to something is really nothing more than a presumptuous, unsolicited imposition on someone’s valuable time. Alright, that’s a bit cynical, but you understand my point.

Most of the time, we only go to stuff we’re formally invited to attend because we feel either a sense of obligation or there’s free booze involved. We stress over what to wear and lament what other stuff we’re missing by choosing to attend. How many times have you gone out and met a group of your friends for a birthday dinner in honor of someone you know tangentially and ended up forking over an extra forty bucks for her to drink apple-tini’s and bitch about her ex-boyfriend all evening? You leave exhausted, pissed off, and you can’t wait to fire off a “can you believe her” email to whomever you sat next to at that dinner and subtly complained to all night.

I don’t want to have that kind of pressure hanging over my head on my birthday. I’ll take a free Lone Star, a hug, and a song on the jukebox. I’ll take true friends in place of obligors (that’s a fancy lawyer word for someone who owes you something) any day of the week. Like my taste, my birthday will be simple yet meaningful. Incidentally, the one who is owed the obligation is called the obligee. Do me a favor and toast me with your favorite beverage this weekend. In fact, post those picture on my Facebook Fan Page. I’d get a huge kick out of them.

Annnnyyyhooo . . . next subject.

Apparently, the jewelry conglomerate Bailey, Banks, & Biddle thinks I’m a big shot. So does a company called Hira’s Fashion. A funny thing happens when a person becomes a lawyer. You see, the mere impression of affluence bolstered by the presence of a title that implies it is enough to make people with expensive stuff to sell go freaking nuts. Allow me to explain.

When I graduated law school, I had a Doctorate of Jurisprudence conferred upon me. That sounds awfully fancy but it amounts to nothing more than an illustration that I was, in fact, willing to spend sixty thousand dollars of my own money and an additional three years of my life slaving away in the bowels of a law school library in order to argue with insurance adjusters over an extra five grand in an attempt to settle a slip and fall case on my client’s property. It’s not that glamorous. Trust me.

Having a law degree is comparable to renting a limousine. Sure, it looks nice and it will probably help me pick up some chicks, but at the end of the day all it means is that I had a lot of spare time and access to 120 bucks. The truth is that I’m no better or worse off than the next guy and, while this career choice has blessed me with the ability to earn a good living, I’m far from rich—by any standard. Nonetheless, Bailey, Banks, & Biddle sees fit to send me its ultra top secret “Special Reserve Vault” catalog filled with high end (read “ridiculously overpriced) “treasures” inviting me to “unlock great savings.” I love the clever safe metaphor. Whatever.

The best part about it—or the most laughable depending on how you look at it—is the fact that it’s addressed with my full first name, middle initial, and last name followed by a comma and an Esquire. More about that in a minute.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to tell the readers that there was a time in my life when I was, in fact, rich—by any standards. I lived in a horrible city that sucked the life out of me, went to a horrible job that sucked the life out of me, and drove to and from work in horrendous traffic that sucked the life out of me. However, I made a pile of cash, had a couple fancy schmancy cars, a nice office, a cool house, and did I whatever I wanted to do. The problem with that scenario is that the price of receiving all of that wonderful money was literally my soul. I lost everything dear to me, including my identity, and truth be told, there is no amount of money that could ever make me put myself in that situation again. I simplified and I’m eternally grateful that I did. Lesson Learned. The Hard Way.

During this time, I actually had someone that I referred to as “my jeweler.” I know. Stay with me. Over a seven year period, I purchased approximately $40,000 worth of jewelry from “my jeweler.” Unfortunately for me, none of it was mine. I treated my money as if it didn’t belong to me and so did the recipients of those gifts. Congratulations to the beneficiaries of my generosity—or stupidity. Lesson Learned. Again, the Hard Way. The point is, I suppose, that the fine folks at B,B,&B might be justified in thinking I’m a big shot. Throw in a comma Esquire on top of that and I’m the freaking King of Siam. Ergo, access to the special vault. If they only knew . . . .

By the way, one of my favorite movies is “The King and I” not because it’s any good but because Yul Brynner is the best King of Siam ever. The guy was like five feet tall and literally smoked more than John Wayne. He played cowboys, pharaohs, and kings over the course of his career and all of them were angry and had a Russian accent. Every time that movie comes on television, I watch it simply to see him put his hands on his hips and say “Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.” They don’t make diminutive, chain smoking Russian immigrants like that anymore. Rest in Peace, Yul. Rest in Peace.

Back to my “title.” The term “Esquire” is used by many attorneys—all of them on the East Coast or in Dallas—I imagine, to garner the recognition of earning the aforementioned Juris Doctor degree. The suffix is commonly used in court documents to clarify who the counsel of record is in a particular matter. Its practical use ends there; however, many attorneys put it on everything from business cards to Christmas cards. I literally roll my eyes when I see it; especially in Austin where, like me, the standard lawyer shows up to the office in jeans and boots. Finding an “esquire” in my office is like peeking into a nudie bar and attempting to find a “gentlemen.” Nonetheless, the term “Gentlemen’s Club” is part of our vernacular.

The term “Esquire” was formerly used by English “gentlemen” to denote they came from a higher class than those referred to simply as Mr. So and So. Today, it is as meaningless as a Lady GaGa song or a campaign promise and literally anyone can use it after his or her name. It is generally assumed that the person using it is a lawyer, but that’s not always the case. In short, it means nothing. For the record, I’m hardly an upper class gentleman and I’m certainly not in the habit of gaining advantage by use of a title. Such is life, I suppose. I find it incredibly amusing—and fitting—that I spent a ton of money and time all in pursuit of a meaningless title. I’m like the Charlie Brown of the legal world . . . or is it Charlie Brown, Esquire?

Much to my chagrin, various Bar Associations to which I belong don’t feel that way and they feel free to stain my good name by including Esquire on everything from junk mail to credit card offers. Ironically, its use on junk mail and credit cards leads to—you guessed it—more junk mail and credit cards. It’s bad enough I have to pay dues to the Bar Association in exchange for junk mail. Now they sell my name to whoever will pay for it. Maybe this is why I often feel cheap and unappreciated. Then again, maybe it’s not.

Final thoughts on Esquire. The title is not for me. I’ve said before, I don’t hate being a lawyer and I do get a sense of accomplishment from my job--sometimes. However, the last thing I’d ever want to be remembered for being is a lawyer. With that said, it is customary in certain places to use the Esq. and I understand that. If you ever come to Texas, though, do yourself a favor and leave the Esquire on the plane.

Aside from the giant pile of the catalogs published by the usual suspects: Target, Lands End, Crate & Barrel, REI, etc., I also received a catalog from a company named Hira’s Fashion. I immediately looked at it because it was emblazoned with gold lettering which I assumed I was supposed to think was actually gold leaf. Fat chance. I pulled it from the stack of Christmas solicitations and noticed the E the S and the Q after my name. “This ought to be good,” I thought.

I opened the catalog and immediately began laughing out loud when I saw the greeting. It read—and I quote—

“Hello D. P., Esquire (there’s that word again),

Hira's Fashion was established in London & Hong Kong in 1960. We are specialists in fitting lawyers (Barristers & Solicitors) in all commonwealth legal communities throughout the world for legal regalia. Although not a requirement for U.S attorney's, we are one of only three companies in the world that make a full range of Barrister Horsehair wigs and robes, a tradition that dates back to the 17th Century.”

It went on, but I had to stop for fear of laughing to death. A horsehair wig, huh? I immediately had visions of myself walking into a rural Texas County Courthouse with my briefcase, opening it at counsel’s table in front of the local judge, and donning my horsehair wig prior to beginning oral argument. Can you imagine? Perhaps I could just wear the thing about town to the grocery store, the gym, and various bars and restaurants in lieu of putting Esquire after my name. Everyone would sure as hell know I was a lawyer then. A horsehair wig. Dude, someone needs to tell Hira’s VP of Marketing to hire an American ad agency.

My absolute favorite part is “Although not a requirement for U.S attorney's . . .” Apostrophe misuse aside, I love how they leave the door open for attorneys here in the good ole U.S. of A. to order a horsehair wig. Sure, it’s not a “requirement,” but the option is there if you want to take advantage of it. As if any Esquire who received this in the mail wondered for even a millisecond if he should order a horsehair wig. Classic. I’m still laughing at that one.

Switching gears . . .

I was speaking to a lady friend of mine the other day and we were discussing setting up one of my newly single friends with one of her newly single friends. I don’t know why we do that to our friends. Isn’t that always a bad idea? At any rate, the conversation went something like this:

DP: Is she hot and normal as opposed to homely and crazy?

LF (Lady Friend): That’s mean. Yes, she’s cute.

DP: I didn’t say cute. I said hot. Is she cute as in ‘she has a cute face’ or ‘she has a cute personality?” because I really can’t endorse it if either is the case.

LF That’s mean. I’d say she’s hot, but what do you mean by ‘hot’?

Ok, you get the idea. The conversation went on from there and deteriorated into an iPhone check of the Facebook page where I complained incessantly because there was a severe lack of full body pictures. For the record, her friend could not have been more lovely and she and my newly single friend, although they did not find a love connection, got along famously and had a wonderful time. Disaster averted.

For the benefit of my overwhelmingly female audience allow me to explain the different versions of “hot” that men have in mind when we ask that kind of a question.

First, “hot” does not mean trashy. Nor does it mean easy. “Hot” means attractive from head to toe, from any angle, at any time of day, and in any setting. I know you’re all saying that men’s standards are too high and that test is impossible to meet. No, it’s not. If a man finds you “hot”—whatever that means to him—this will be the definition.

Minus meeting all criteria of this test, there are other kinds of ‘hot’.

Office Hot: This is the semi-attractive woman in an office who provides a welcome distraction from all of the unattractive women in the office. She’s not necessarily THAT attractive, but she’ll do during the 8 hours a day when a man is sequestered from all of the really hot women in the world.

Funny Hot: This is the woman who makes up for an overall lack of physical hotness or a single unattractive physical characteristic by having a fantastic personality. This happens a hell of a lot more than women think it does. Every guy knows a couple of these women. I suppose it could be the same with a funny short, chubby, bald guy, for instance.

Dropped French Fry Hot: Kind of dirty, but you’d still eat it.

College Hot: This one is self explanatory.

Cool Hot: This is the woman that every guy loves to be around because she’s low maintenance, self-assured, even-tempered, and spontaneous. Every guy knows a few of these women too and, believe me, we’re thankful for them. This is the type of girl that romantic comedies use as the loveable sidekick to the neurotic lead character that women picture as the perfect match for any man. When we watch the romantic comedy with you, trust me, we’re looking at the sidekick. No guy wants to listen to Meg Ryan self-loath for an entire evening.

Sand Wedge Hot: This is also known as a 9-Iron or a Picasso Painting. Why? Because it looks good from 100 yards away.

and last but not least, 10-2 Hot. This is the woman who is a Ten at Two A.M. and a Two at 10 A.M.

Of course, there are other kinds of hot, but I think this runs the range. You’re welcome.

. . . and FINALLY . . .

I lost a bet recently. To tell the truth, I lose a lot of bets. I lose bets on pool games, football games, turtle races, and any other friendly, meaningless type of wager that friends dream up while downing a few Lone Stars. The problem with the bet I lost recently is that I lost it to Lincee Ray, the wonderful, fun-loving author of www.ihategreenbeans.com and bona fide member of the Wes Hayden Fan Club (she’s running for Treasurer).

The substance of the bet is unimportant. What is important is that I lost. What I lost is really important. You see, I made the mistake of sharing with Lincee that years ago I supplemented my income by performing some modeling jobs on the side of my regular gigs. I was no Antonio Sabato, Jr., but the work was somewhat steady and I never minded it too much. My highest paying job came when I was asked to spend 4 hours at a photo shoot here in Austin. A woman I knew at the time had a friend who was a photographer and suggested I go see her about the job. I did and she hired me. I was told to show up at a local studio where I would get fitted in my wardrobe. Excited, I accepted and went about my business.

The following week I showed up at the studio. The woman came to the front and greeted me. We walked back to the room where I’d be earning my keep for the next four hours. Much to my surprise all that was in the room was a white, flowing background with a king sized bed in the foreground. That’s it. Hmmmm, I wondered. What in the world have I done? I had been assured that this was a legitimate photo shoot for a local business that would appear across town on a billboard and in various print ads. A consummate professional, I pushed on.

When I got to “wardrobe” I began to worry. The woman opened the door and instructed me to “pick a pair that works and meet me in the studio.” When I walked in there were a dozen or so pairs of boxer shorts laid out on a table along with a cardboard nametag that read “Male Talent” on it. Sh*t, I thought.

Long story short, I put on the boxers and joined my female counterpart—who I assume was just as uninformed as I was—between the sheets for a four hour photo session. Apparently, the ad was for a local store called Condom Sense which sells a variety of safe sex items. The ad promoted safe sex along with the Grand Opening Sale.

That’s a true story and I happened to share it with Lincee after I’d let my guard down after she bought me a few Lone Stars and unquestionably slipped something in my beer. Later in the evening, Lincee and I made a bet—again, the substance of which is irrelevant—and I lost. The price of defeat was a copy of one of the pictures which she would post on her site. Not one to shirk my responsibility, I paid up.

Please know that I am horrified, but a loss is a loss. Congratulations, Lincee. I will get you back . . . one of these days.

Please enjoy the start to your holiday season. Take it easy on yourselves and on those around you. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be wearing a set of boxers . . . and a horsehair wig. DP