Monday, September 27, 2010

Off Season Post 2: DP's Worst Date Ever

Welcome back to the off season where it is incumbent upon me to fill these pages with something entertaining enough to keep my most loyal readers from attending to whatever task awaits in the infamous metal in-box on the corner of the desk. On the eve of the announcement of the next guy to jog shirtless down the beach in search of love, I will regale you with the story of my worst date ever. Thank you to all of the readers who suggested topics. This one caught my attention. But first, a little background.

Far be it from me to hold back any of the details of the upcoming story. I won’t. However, I do like to remain somewhat mysterious to the readers out there and will not share all of the details of my personal life. Actually, the details are not that exciting and I’d like to avoid having some of the people mentioned in this story lie in wait outside various South Austin bars waiting for me to stumble out in order to exact revenge upon me. I’m a creature of habit and, as such, would be easily tracked. I’m not as elusive as Bigfoot, for instance.

As all of you are aware, I like to tell stories. In telling some stories, it is essential to use various literary devices and a certain level of exaggeration in order to make the story jump from the page and French kiss the reader’s sensibility. The story becomes a living, breathing thing tangled in a dance with the reader’s emotions, thoughts, and ideas. You get the picture. This, my friends, is not necessary in the following story. I’ve changed the names of everyone involved (see the second paragraph) and I’ve consolidated the time line and some small details a bit in the interest of brevity. However, all of the details of the following story are true. With that, let’s get to it.

Fresh off the end of a long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up, like Bambi on ice, I ventured cautiously back into the dating world. It had been some time (years actually) since I’d casually dated anyone with the intention of finding love or a connection or going on a journey or whatever. When my last relationship started, text messaging was in its fetal stages, the term “friends with benefits” had not yet become part of everyday vernacular, and the dirtiest thing on my cell phone was the earpiece. In short, the landscape had changed significantly and I didn’t know I needed a compass in order navigate it successfully. This story is an example of that realization.

Because of my self-imposed relationship tunnel vision, I had grown ignorant of the current mores of the singles dating scene. I was naïve with respect to the rules of engagement. What I failed to realize is that, although charming and confident, I was utterly inept concerning the current and proper way to woo a potential paramour. Hell, my approach was as old and outdated as the phrase “to woo a potential paramour.”

Cut to a night out at a trendy hotspot that, but for my best friend’s birthday, I wouldn’t be seen in if the pope invited me for lunch. Incidentally, I wonder what the pope eats for lunch. The current pope is German but has lived in Rome for an extended period of time. I wonder if they fly in some schnitzel or borscht or if he prefers the zesty sauces of the Italian cuisine. Regardless, I was in a trendy hotspot. How trendy? Let’s put it this way. There were ferns and they didn’t serve Lone Star. It was that bad.

After a few rounds of my second choice beverage, the birthday boy mercifully granted us permission to leave and after bounding through the exit door I took my first breath in hours that didn’t have the subtle smell of spray on tan and vodka martinis. Hark! I heard my friend’s name being called out in Siren-like fashion from behind me. We turned around and behold, an angel sent down from above sat there smiling from ear to ear before taking her angelic hands from her angelic hips and angelically putting them around my friend’s neck and squealing with excitement . . . angelically, of course. On second thought, I’m not certain that angels squeal. I believe they rejoice or something, but if they did, in fact, squeal, I’m confident it would sound like her squeal.

My friend, a doctor, informed me that (let’s call her Angel for purposes of this story) Angel had worked with him as a nurse in the Emergency Room during his residency in another state. “Solid,” I thought, “I have an in with her.” “This is the person who will be the first person I ask on a date after my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up.” I smiled. She looked at me and wondered why I was smiling. She told the Doctor that she’d recently moved to Austin and had no idea that he was living in town. “How exciting,” I thought. Exciting indeed.

Angel and the Doctor exchanged phone numbers as I fought back the urge—and searched for a good excuse—to ask for her number as well. We went our separate ways that evening and I floated home, drunk with the possibility of once again finding true love. Actually, I was just drunk. Here’s where fate intervened.

The very next morning—perhaps still drunk on the aforementioned possibility—I woke up unusually early with an unusually light hangover. It’s the little things that make life great, isn’t it? Annnyyyyhooo . . . Virtually hangover free and feeling motivated, I made the choice to head to the gym. More specifically, I made the choice to go to Spin class. Please, save me the “are you gay” and “that’s jazzercise on a bike” remarks. Spin class is cool. I donned my gym gear and headed South. My gym is “an indoor gym for outdoor people” for crying out loud and I was about to go work out, indoors.

When I arrived at Spin class, I chose a bike and began to adjust it. I was surrounded by the usual Saturday morning workout crowd. The class was filled with attractive, spandex wearing, taut women with ponytails and sports bras in various stages of warm up. There were a few regular guys in t-shirts and ball caps like me and there was the token “overdoing it guy” decked out in full bike gear and a heart monitor wearing a yellow Lance Armstrong U.S. Postal Tour de France jersey. I wondered if he realized that he was on a stationary bike instead of trudging through the Pyrenees in a peloton in search of a stage victory. Delusions of grandeur are a bitch. Douchebag.

Unintimidated, I mounted my bike and began to pedal. I looked up and—remember that part about fate?—there she was. It was none other than Angel pedaling angelically on her winged stationary bike. She was the Spin instructor. I’ll cut out the details of the class —and the thoughts in my head that accompanied them—but suffice to say it was the best, most energizing work out I’d gotten hammered one night and drunk ordered Tae Bo after seeing the infomercial for the ten thousandth time. Try putting on those wrist things after a dozen Lone Stars.

Realizing that I now had an excuse to ask Doctor for her number, I called him and obtained the digits. “I’m in the know,” I thought. “I’ll send her a witty but appropriate text message and point out the coincidence. She’ll love it.” I briefly entertained the possibility of a text haiku but ruled that out. I decided to save that for later. You know, AFTER she fell in love with me. I was like Louden Swain dropping down to 168 in order to wrestle Schute. Angel was my Vision Quest.

After composing a short, friendly message and including my name, I held my breath and hit the send button. Text messaging, after all, is the passenger pigeon of the 21st Century and I was proud of myself for attempting this new method of courting. However, I was still not sophisticated enough to quit using the word “courting.”

Much to my surprise, Angel responded almost immediately and we texted playfully (and angelically) for most of the day. I learned her favorite movies and we exchanged quotes. I learned that she lived, not in Heaven, but in an up and coming part of town. I shared my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up story and she empathized. I reveled in my texting ability and basked in the truths revealed via poorly punctuated, 120 or fewer character messages. “I haven’t lost a thing since my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up,” I thought. “It’s on.”

Cut to the end of the following Monday work day and me sitting dutifully in my lake view office staring out at Town Lake and pretending to work. My phone rang. It was Angel. I answered and she asked me where I was. After telling her that I was working on something really important, I mentioned that I was getting ready to leave for the day. After all, a person can only do so many important things in one day, right? Shockingly, she invited me to a local Mexican restaurant—get this—to have drinks with her and her best friend’s husband who happened to be in town on business. “Bingo,” I smiled. I had just procured a “meet the best friend’s husband” invitation and I assumed that was a good thing. Clearly, she wanted to get a trusted opinion before letting me jump on and defile her angelic bones. Break up, Schmake Up. I’m Money.

Excited that I was already wearing a cool shirt and having a good hair day, I headed out. I arrived and proceeded to be charming. We drank, we laughed, I gawked, she smiled. I talked to the best friend’s husband and was happy when we seemed to be hitting it off. “This is fantastic,” I thought. I began plotting how to ask her out and prayed that her best friend’s husband’s bladder would soon become pregnant with pressure and he would excuse himself, leaving us alone to bask in the glow of her halo so I could ask her out prior to defiling her angelic bones. Fate apparently enjoys margaritas and chips too because it was again about to intervene.

Just then Angel’s phone rang and she answered. Unfortunately, the best friend’s husband used that as his cue to excuse himself and I was left there, Lone Star in hand, waiting for her conversation with who I assumed was St. Peter to end so I could ask her out before the husband returned. She hung up and, as if it was planned, the husband returned simultaneously. Undeterred, I took a pull from the bottle and trudged on like soldier of love in search of his prize. Actually, I resorted to some dick jokes in order to get the party going again.

About 15 minutes later, I got up to go to the pisser and when I returned, I was surprised to see another woman standing in front of the table staring directly at me. I walked toward her in order find my seat again and, seeing the Lone Star in my hand, she said, “where’s my beer?” Confused, I actually asked her if she was a waitress and she smiled a sarcastic smile and said, “do I look like a waitress?” “Yes,” I wanted to say, but I thought better of it. Apparently, she was the person on the phone I had mistaken for St. Peter and she had garnered an invite from Angel. I introduced myself confident that her purpose was also to provide a second opinion before Angel would open her Heavenly gates to my subtle advances. We’ll call her Bree for purposes of our story.

Bree was, in a word, interesting. Attractive but not hot she demanded a lot of attention and took joy in making bitchy observations that she apparently considered witty. I was annoyed and unimpressed. She was like a strange hair in my soup and I wanted nothing more than to pick her up between my thumb and forefinger and wipe her on the table cloth. However, I’m not an idiot—at least that’s what I thought—and I reasoned that Angel had invited her knowing that she was a bit difficult to deal with in order to see how I would react. Her thoroughness was hot. I pressed on.

I began to ask Bree my usual series of getting to know you questions. I asked not because I was interested, but because I wanted to know what jokes to steer clear of in order to avoid offending her. Whether I like it or not, she had a say in the potential bone jumping and I needed to hit a home run. Bree was a hairdresser, had a full body tattoo running from the side of her left knee all the way up her side and curving around her back, and she loved dogs. I have to admit that I have a thing for tattooed chicks and my interest in that probably distracted me from the red flags being thrown in front of my face with every sentence she uttered. The fact that she made a living with a sharp object in her hand very close to someone’s jugular vein should have been a clue for me to steer clear. I also listened to her because she had strategically taken the seat between Angel and me in an effort to temporarily disrupt my plans so that she could size me up. Clever. Predictable, but clever.

Again supplying much needed mercy, the Doctor called to see what I was doing. Apparently, he and his wife were headed to a local bar to see an 80’s cover band and suggested I invite everyone. “Great,” I thought, “an 80’s cover band.” Unless I’m at a wedding or plan on getting a sex change and meeting up with a few of my best girlfriends after a day long shopping trip and a nap in order to form a circle and dance the night away, I have no real use for 80’s bands. Hell, 80’s cover bands don’t even like 80’s cover bands.

However, I floated the idea across the table and Angel loved it. I instantly became a fan of 80’s cover bands and we decided to rendezvous with the Doctor and his wife. I was encouraged at leveling the playing field by adding two members to my side in Operation Angel Boom and left with a big fat smile on my silly little face. I secretly wished that Bree would develop a stomach issue on the drive between the Mexican place and the 80’s place. Fate didn’t agree.

We all arrived at the 80’s bar and found the Doctor and his wife. A small group of about 4 of Angel and Bree’s friends joined the party as well. “Hi, I’m Angel’s next boyfriend,” I thought to myself as I put on my best smile and shook their hands. We proceeded to rock the house. About 30 minutes into rocking the house, Bree grabbed my hand and suggested we take a break from getting down with our bad selves in order to head to the bar to get a round of drinks for everyone. I agreed. After all, that’s a classy move and I knew getting Angel a refill on her angel juice would earn me points—small points, but points nonetheless. Here’s where it began to get weird.

Upon arriving at the bar I proceeded to reach for my wallet and as I looked over at Bree in order to ask what she wanted to drink, she grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me. “Uh, oh,” I thought. Shocked, I pulled away and Bree looked at me with the exact same look that Glen Close gave Michael Douglass when he tried to tell her the affair was over. Thoughts raced through my mind. She’d gone rogue. I was certain of it. I couldn’t believe that she was ruining Angel’s plan to size me up before letting me jump her angelic bones. Uncool.

I politely told her that “it wasn’t like that” between us and suggested we return to the group. Awkwardly, we made our way back across the bar. “I have a problem,” I told the Doctor. “I know,” he said. “I saw that.” Well aware of Operation Angel Boom, the Doctor spent the rest of the evening strategically placing himself between Bree and me in order to provide the cushion necessary for me to re-strategize. The evening ended uneventfully and I returned home still encouraged that I could make things work with Angel. I saw Bree as a speed bump. Little did I know that she was a freaking sink hole.

Sidenote: At this point in the story, you’re probably wondering many things. I promise to tie all of those up by the end of this post. The “date” I refer to in the title has not occurred yet. Second, the current DP would have handled this situation much differently and I’ll elaborate on that later too. Keep in mind that I was fresh off my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up and I had a few lessons to learn.

The weekend went along without incident and my tentative, water-testing texts to Angel were returned without any hint of a problem. “Thank God,” I thought. Bree had the courtesy to keep quiet about her little breach of etiquette and I was relieved to think that I still had a shot with Angel. I tooled around throughout the day and made tentative plans to meet my best friend whose name is not important for dinner and a beer in the evening. I went on a mountain bike ride, went to my favorite book store, and did some laundry. I showered, threw on some shorts, a t-shirt, flip flops, and a ball cap and headed out to meet my friend.

By the way, does anyone remember when flip flops were called “thongs”? I believe it’s evident why we don’t use that term anymore, but I actually preferred it. I suppose it would be weird if I said that I put on a t-shirt, thongs, and a ball cap. After all, why would I need two thongs? Annnyyyyhoooo . . . .

I got in the car and my phone rang. It was my friend. He’d been drinking all day at his house and didn’t want to drive to dinner. Since I lived about 10 miles from him, I accepted his inebriation and chose to go it alone for dinner. Just as I hung up with him, my phone rang again. “Bree” the Caller ID flashed? It was then that I remembered that we had exchanged phone numbers at the Mexican place prior to going to the other bar so that we could coordinate our arrivals. “Damnit,” I thought. To this day, I don’t know why but I picked up the phone. It was Bree who let me know that she was “chillaxin” at home. I don’t know who invented that stupid word and I get annoyed every time I hear it. Combining two words like “Chilling” and “Relaxing” is neither clever nor necessary. I suppose “Brunch” and “Rebar” might disagree, however.

At any rate, I told Bree that my friend canceled on me and she asked where I was going to dinner. To this day, I don’t know why but I answered her. Of course, she told me that her house was not too far from where I was going and offered to meet me there. To this day, I don’t know why but I agreed. I parked, entered the restaurant, and took a seat at the bar and, more importantly, began to drink.

After two beers and about 25 minutes I looked up and standing there in the doorway to the restaurant waiting for my attention to drift her way, was Bree. Bree was more dressed up than a sore finger in a revealing, short summer dress looking thing with strappy dress shoes and matching accessories. I wondered if she had a pair of sharp scissors in her clutch purse. Then it hit me.

Holy Sh*t. I’m on a date.

Bree sauntered over, took a seat, and proceeded to order me to finish my beer because she did not like the restaurant. For some reason, I agreed. I finished and we proceeded down the block to an Italian place. We sat, made small talk, and eventually ordered dinner. She ordered appetizers, a salad, an entrée, and downed several glasses of wine. I continued to drink, slowly realizing that Bree was no longer on a scouting mission for Angel. I still held out hope, however, and I was sober enough to realize that any shot I had left was contingent upon successfully navigating the waters immediately ahead of me. “What we do in life echoes in eternity,” said Russell Crowe in Gladiator. The evening quickly turned into eternity.

After her third glass of wine, Bree felt the need to delve deeply into my personal life. I played along praying that her favorite shears wouldn’t be delving deeply into my temple for a failure to answer. She pried, and pried, and pried. She was particularly fascinated with my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up, and instead of responding to her with a “it’s none of your f*cking business,” I continued to play along. I answered honestly and openly and even volunteered some details even though I felt uncomfortable doing so. Dinner sucked and I footed the bill to the tune of about eighty bucks. It was like a bad massage without the Enya music and aromatherapy candles. I sat there and took it.

She asked me how many people I’d been with in my life and before I answered she actually said, “because you’re not going to sleep with me until you get an AIDS test.” Amused, I told her that it was presumptuous to think that I actually wanted to sleep with her. I sensed that the Crazy was beginning to ooze from her pores like tiny water leaks in the metal hull of a sinking ship. It was a matter of time before it came gushing out in an uncontrollable high pressured stream.

At this point, I was a bit loaded. Drunk, no, but my judgment was impaired and I agreed to go to another bar with her for a final beer. After that beer she suggested we go back to her place for a glass of wine. I hesitated, but she insisted. Not wanting to offend her, I agreed.

Sidenote: I know that most of you are thinking that I’m not being forthcoming here. You’re all thinking that I intended to make a move on Bree and that’s why I went back to her house. I promise that’s not the case. For some reason, I was afraid to disappoint her. I was not attracted to her in the least. In fact, her blunt nature and the fact that she barreled over any discernable social boundary like an avalanche was a huge turn off. I really didn’t like her, but for some reason, I hung in there. I do remember wondering what her house would look like inside. I remember thinking about Angel and wondering if I could still salvage my chances. Perhaps that’s why I agreed. I had an opportunity to bail out. Instead, I chose to ride the U.S.S. Bad Date to the bottom of the ocean.

I followed Bree back to her house, which was very close by. At least she told the truth about that. Upon entering her house, which was an upstairs garage apartment, I greeted her dog and took a seat on the couch. Bree excused herself saying that she was going to change and open the bottle of wine. Buzzing and mildly annoyed, I sat there on the couch scanning the room. Various pictures of her and what I assumed was family and friends were strategically scattered about the place. The furniture was a mish mash of non-matching items and the color scheme was drab and neutral. Like Bree, it wasn’t ugly, but it wasn’t interesting either. I wondered if I attempted to talk to it if it would order me around like she did.

I began to wonder about other men who had sat in my exact place scanning her apartment. I wondered if they were buried under the floor or wrapped in plastic in the deep freeze in the garage waiting to be discovered after I narrowly avoided a scissor stabbing and escaped screaming through the streets only to be rescued by a Good Samaritan who would take me to the local police substation where I could enjoy a hot cup of coffee and tell my abduction story while wrapped in one of those foil blankets. I took comfort in the fact that she lived on an upper story above a garage. There was no possibility of her having a well in a basement where she would feed me water and baloney slices after ordering me to take the lotion from the basket and rub it all over myself.

Just as I was about to snap back to reality, she appeared. As I scanned the room studying its contents I looked around toward the doorway and standing there was Bree. Now at first, this might not sound unusual. She excused herself to change into something more comfortable and open a bottle of wine. That’s pretty standard practice for a woman who’s been wearing heels and a fancy dress all evening and it didn’t ruffle my naïve, newly single feathers. However . . .

Bree stood there with one hand stretched up the door jamb with the other hand on her hip. She was wearing a yellow tank top undershirt cut off just below her ta ta’s and—I promise you I’m not lying—gray cotton thong underwear with a flaming skull with a dagger through it covering her lady business. The only thing she was wearing besides that was a smile. Paralyzed and well aware that crazy girls can smell fear, my mind began to invent excuses in order to leave. However, an area deep inside my brain knew that I was about to experience something similar to a rear end car collision. You see it coming through your front windshield and as much as you don’t want it to happen, you realize that an impact is imminent. I braced for impact.

“I’m not going to get any wine, am I?” I said trying to keep the conversation going in an effort to delay her advance. “No, I’ve got something better,” she said as she began to walk toward me. Moments later, she was on top of me on the couch with her arms around my neck. I took this opportunity to place my hands on her hips---not in an attempt to draw her closer, but in an effort to inspect the waistband of the aforementioned flaming skull thong for shivs, ice picks, or any other sharp object that could be used to incapacitate me. She began kissing me and, just as I thought things were about to move forward, she stopped, sat back, removed her shirt, and looked me right in the face and said, “Are you interested in Angel?”

My initial thought was, “why, is she here?” Thankful for the opportunity to speak, I put my hands on her outer thighs and said plainly and clearly, “Look, this whole night has been way too weird for me. I’m going to leave.” With that, she frowned, stood up, collected her shirt, walked over to the door, and opened it. I stood, gathered myself, and suddenly felt a need to explain. Luckily, she ushered me out the door and I walked swiftly but carefully to my car and drove home.

Here’s where it gets weird.

I walked into my office building on Monday morning, poured my usual cup of coffee, and entered my office to begin my daily routine. I was there no more than five minutes when my office phone rang. It was Bree. Keep in mind that I had never given her my office number and I couldn’t recall if I’d told her the name of the firm where I worked at the time. “Hello, it’s Bree. Can you talk?” she said. It struck me that her statement could mean two things. First, it could mean “are you in a place in your day when you are sufficiently caught up with your work that you can take the time to discuss something of a sensitive nature with me?” Or, it could mean, “since I put something in your drink last night before I attempted to sexually assault you, I was calling to check to see if you still have the power of speech.”

“What are your intentions with me?” She asked.

Intentions? Good Lord. Politely, I attempted to explain to her that going all the way back to the original kiss at the bar that she had misread me, I was sorry if I’d mislead her, things got weird, you bilked me out of dinner and drinks, you threw yourself at me in flaming skull and dagger underwear, blah, blah, blah. Bottom line, I’m interested in Angel and we should just be friends. Bree did not take rejection well. In fact, she didn’t take it at all.

“I think you’re misunderstanding your feelings for me,” she said.

Read that line again. Yes, that’s what she said. Realizing that I was dealing with a less than rational woman, I reiterated my desire to remain friends and quickly ended the conversation. STILL under the delusion that I had a shot at Angel, I texted her telling her that I wanted to discuss the Bree situation because things had become slightly odd. Angel responded that I should call her that evening. Relieved I’d be given the opportunity to set things straight, I went about my day.

When I arrived home that evening, I changed clothes, poured a glass of Gatorade, and picked up the phone to dial Angel. When she answered, she proceeded to tell me that she couldn’t believe that I got Bree drunk and attempted to take advantage of her. She was flabbergasted that I had asked Bree on a date and then behaved so badly. She couldn’t believe that I would ask Bree on a date and then proceed to tell her the deepest details of my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up. After all, no girl wants to hear about that and I should just take comfort in being alone rather than jumping back into a relationship.

Angel told me that she had a boyfriend and couldn’t believe that I was trying to sleep with her and Bree. I was “shady” and dishonest and I was a jerk for trying to take advantage of the kindness she’d showed me by trying to help me get back on my feet after my long, painful, protracted, gut-wrenching, life-changing, undeniably tragic, and all-consuming break up.
I quickly formed the opinion that Angel had spoken with Bree. I also learned that the four friends I’d met on the first night had also heard the story from Bree. They now all hated me. Great.

After a feeble attempt at an explanatory email, I left the entire situation at this. “Look, I won’t hang out with you and your friends anymore because I don’t want to get in the way. The only thing I will say in my defense is that I’d be willing to bet that the story that I would tell you about the evening’s events is a lot different than the one you heard from Bree.” I apologized and that was it. To this day, there are a half dozen women running around Austin, Texas who periodically see me and pause to whisper about me. The old DP would have worried profusely about that. Not anymore. I’m far from a victim in this entire scenario but I will say that there are witches in Salem who got more of a say than I did that day. I don’t blame the girls for sticking by their friends, but I often wonder if any of them suspect that they didn’t get the entire story from Bree.

Set the identical story in the present day and scroll back to the initial meeting with Bree. This is how I would have responded today. For your benefit, the changes are in capital letters.

. . . about 15 minutes later, I got up to go to the pisser and when I returned, I was surprised to see another woman standing in front of the table staring directly at me. I walked toward her in order find my seat again and, seeing the Lone Star in my hand, she said, “where’s my beer?” ANNOYED, I actually asked her if she was a waitress and she smiled a sarcastic smile and said, “do I look like a waitress?” “Yes,” I SAID. Apparently, she was the person on the phone I had mistaken for St. Peter and she had garnered an invite from Angel. I introduced myself, TOLD HER I’D BE HAPPY TO BUY HER A BEER IF SHE’D ASK NICELY, AND UPON HANDING HER THE BEER I PURCHASED SAID, “NOW PLEASE GET OUT OF MY SEAT BECAUSE I’M TRYING TO GET TO KNOW ANGEL SO THAT I CAN ASK HER OUT. DON’T F*CK THAT UP FOR ME, PLEASE. We’ll call her Bree for purposes of our story.

I’ve learned a lot since then. To this day, I still see Angel in Spin class and at various functions around town. We don’t hang out at the same places. Apparently, she’s not into dilapidated honky tonks with marginal structural support and substandard plumbing. We’re friendly to one another, but the weirdness has not been broken. By all accounts, she’s a decent, kind person and I wish nothing but good for her. I saw Bree shortly after that fiasco at a concert venue. She had her meat hooks all over another unsuspecting fellow and I wondered if he too would get a chance to see the flaming skull thong. I don’t wish her any ill will either. She’s a little nuts, but hey, we’ve all been there once or twice if we’re being honest, right? The friends still give me tsk tsk looks and now that makes me smile a bit. Such is life. I suppose I've grown up a bit since then and I suppose that's what a person is supposed to do when he makes a mistake.

Well, that’s it. My worst date story. I hope you enjoyed reading. Please tune in next time and feel free to suggest more topics, as I have not yet committed to one for the next post. If any of you have a line on where a person can buy the skull thong, send me a link, I’d be curious to see if you can find the exact one. Trust me, I would have no trouble identifying it as that image is seared indelibly upon my brain. Until next week, if you need me, I’ll be wearing my thong in Spin class. DP

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Off Season Post 1: Who Will it Be? Not Me.

Hello, those of you who still have nothing better to do on a Tuesday but read my blog. Alright, I’m just kidding. For those of you who are still reading, thank you for tuning in to see what I’m going to come up with in the off season. I’ve received a lot of email suggestions as to topics and I’m in the process of mulling them over in my head in order to see what inspiration comes. We’ve got a few months of down time and I’ve got plenty of ideas. From time to time I’ll float one out and see what you think. As always, suggestions are welcome.

Coming fresh off the success of another bachelor based reality show, I asked all of you to email me your ideas and thoughts on the next bachelor and on posts you’d like to see me tackle over the next couple of months. I got a lot of interesting suggestions, proposals, and even one suggestive proposal from a certain Canadian fan who apparently went to the Elizabeth and Michelle School of Charm . . . for her PhD. I appreciate the sentiment from all of the readers, but please, don’t scare me. Incidentally, the fact that this particular reader is from Canada in no way affects my opinion of my fine Canadian readership. There are crazy women in the United States too.

With the Bachelor Pad over the latest Bach gossip inevitably switches back to our favorite September through October question: Who will be the next Bachelor? As has been the case in seasons past, the show will begin shooting in mid-October and will air at the end of January. The next Bachelor will likely be announced after Us Weekly, People, and other various publications of their ilk beat every permutation to death like Al Capone in a Chicago boardroom.

Based on the emails, correspondence, and comments I’ve received in the past week, I’ve compiled a short list of the readers’ most popular choices and/or guesses for the next guy in the hot seat—or is it WITH a hot seat?. I’ve narrowed that down to four and will once and for all answer the most popular question the Some Guy in Austin get via Facebook, email, comments, and in person: Why don’t you become the next Bachelor?

Let’s get to it.

Ty: We all remember this guy, right? He’s the “medical sales” person from Tennessee who believes that the reason that women have smaller feet than men is so they can stand closer to the stove. He’s got ears that look like open car doors and is very fond of giant choker necklaces.

The latest buzz is that he’s in the running right next to Chris L. to be the next guy to weed out the crazy and make a poor decision on a flower filled land bridge in the middle of a sweltering tropical island while wearing a poorly fitting suit. Honestly, I liked Ty despite his penchant for poor jewelry and 1950’s traditionalism. I have no problem with the stay at home mom/wife concept, but clearly many of the twenty-somethings who would sign up for the show would. I think this might present a real problem for a show that likes to film semi-naked, alcohol-induced hot tub grope scenes in addition to bikini wrestling scenes. I could never picture June Cleaver dominating the Bachelor pool in a chicken fight.

Upside: Ty is a genuinely nice guy with traditional ideas about marriage and relationships. It would a nice change from that Douchebag from Denton and his condescending smirk.

Downside: Ty is a genuinely nice guy with traditional ideas about marriage and relationships. Also, choker necklaces would be the new canary yellow. We’d also have to listen to him say “thank you” five times during every make out scene all season. I’m not sure I could stand it.

Chris L: Of course we all remember Chris L. He’s the guy that got dumped by Ali in Tahiti without the benefit of the final date. I wonder if he realized that he dodged a giant, canary yellow bullet by not “winning” Ali’s heart last season. Regardless, he’s clearly the sentimental favorite. His deceased mother tattoo, rosy cheeks, rainbow stories, and oddly close family are all appealing to want-to-be wives and, frankly, I like the guy.

The rumors are that he’s had it with the show. He’s apparently been begged to do the show by its producers because of the instant ratings that would come with his appearance. The problem with Chris L. is that he’s the opposite of Jake. He’s a normal, non-fame seeking, decent, hard-working guy who has overcome a lot of tragedy in his life. Oh, and he’s tall too. We all know that he went on the show “for the right reasons” and may actually be the only guy in recent history who didn’t have an agenda. The problem with that from a production perspective is that he won’t be an easy grab for next season’s show. Everyone does have a price, however, and I’m certain that ABC has enough cash floating around to make it difficult to turn down. Hell, even if they don’t they can always pawn one of Harrison’s watches.

Upside: He’s a funny, normal, guy’s guy and I think he’d be fun to watch.

Downside: We’d have to relive his mother’s death story like we relived Tenley’s damn divorce in addition to having to hear about oysters and crabs all season.

Wes: I’ll go on record as saying this one won’t happen. I’ll also go on record as saying I really want it to happen. Wes has been a wild card since he stepped out of the limo on Jillian’s season. He’s gone from A-hole to A Number One and I think his bachelor-ness has sailed. In addition, he’s “dating” Gia and there’s not enough time between that announcement and the big next bachelor announcement to do away with that relationship and make him single again. Even if a “she cheated” story is invented, Wes is not the guy.

Rumors are that he’s pitching his own version of a reality to around town and it doesn’t hurt that he’s dating Gia. Besides, he’d need to write a new theme song, and I’m not sure we could stand two Wes Hayden songs in our heads on a daily basis. My money says he moves on to something else.

Upside: Wes is a talker and he speaks his mind. It would be fun to hear him comment on 25 new trollops as they swoon and pretend to like his music and the home town visits would be awesome.

Downside: Wes is Wes.

Brad: Alright, I had to include this guy because the second the rumor mill began to buzz with the remote possibility that he could the on board again, I received dozens of email questions asking me to confirm or deny it. The truth is, I have no idea. We have a lot of mutual friends and none of them are talking. This isn’t a gossip site, but I figured I’d try and get some dirt. I didn’t. If he does sign up, I’m certain he’s smart enough to do it for Harrison money.

Upside: He’s the first guy in the show’s history to dump two chicks in the final ceremony. It would be nice to speculate all season if he’d have the stones to do it again.
Downside: We’ve seen it before and while I’m getting a lot of “hmmm, he’s delicious” emails, a fresh face might be nice. After all, the show has been recycling since his season. It’s indirectly his fault that the next Bachelor/Bachelorette is drawn from the short list of people who were dumped the previous season. Get that? Brad is responsible for Jake. Do we really want to perpetuate the cycle?

Some Guy in Austin: No. Freaking. Way. I’ll preface this portion of the blog by stating that the only reason that I’m entertaining this idea is because I get it ALL the time from the readers. “Why don’t YOU sign up to be the next bachelor?” I’ll also preface this by saying that I really don’t think there’s anything wrong, per se, with going on the show in search of a connection, true love, or whatever. I also have no problem with anyone going on to achieve some notoriety in whatever field he chooses to pursue as long as he’s up front about it, but I’m not the guy. Why? I’ll tell you.

First, in order to adequately prepare for this post, I took the liberty of downloading the ABC application to be on the show. You can find the full application at but below are some of my favorite portions.

Whoever wrote this thing is fascinated with the exclamation point. I suppose being on the show is reason for exclamation, but I found its use unnecessary and distracting. The application contains such gems as:

“Making a video is the best way to show us your personality and ensure that you are seen by the casting team!!!”

Just in case that line doesn’t convince a potential applicant, it’s followed by:
“If you don’t have a video camera, ask your friends or family members to see if you can borrow one. Our taping instructions are easy to follow and tell you what we are looking for - click here for instructions and get started right away!”

As I sipped a cold bottle of Lone Star, I wondered if ABC really wanted someone who was not resourceful enough to find a video camera. Is there anyone out there who couldn’t figure that out? Jesse B. came to mind, but he apparently asked the right person for help. Hell, even the “Outdoorsman” submitted a video.

Next, the application asks for basic physical and background information. Relevant, I suppose. Although, I’m not sure why it’s important how much money I make or what my highest level of education is if the show is indeed about finding love. Some of my favorite background questions are below.

Have you ever been arrested, charged or convicted of a crime of any type?

Have you ever had a temporary restraining order issued against you?

Have you ever filed for bankruptcy or chapter 11?

Have you ever been a performer, participant or contestant on television, radio or in film?

Do you drink alcoholic beverages?

Are you genuinely looking to get married?

What is the unique talent of which you are most proud?

List the 3 adjectives that best describe you:

Do you have any tattoos? If yes, what are they? And where are they located on your

What accomplishment are you most proud of?

Why would you be a great husband?

Why are you America’s Most Eligible Bachelor?

Recent Photographs - please submit anywhere from 5 to 15 pictures. Be sure to include some good close-ups shots and full body pics.

My first thought is how did Michelle and Kasey answer the first two questions. How did Natalie handle the “unique talent” inquiry? I can see her scratching her head and wondering if “promiscuity” constituted a talent before calling her BFF and running it by her before writing it down. Wouldn’t you pay to see how Jake and Wes answered the “Most Eligible Bachelor” question? Three adjectives? I suppose “desperate” is a given, but the other two could be anything. I might start with “cool.”

At the end of the day, I suppose the answers to these compelling life questions don’t really matter if the video pulls its weight. It’s like getting popped for DWI. It doesn’t matter what you say if your video stinks. It’s about appearance and marketability for the producers and I’m certain they have slots to fill when “casting” the show. There’s always a crazy one, a desperate one, an angry one (jackass), and a party girl, etc. Without conflict, there’s no story line and without a story line the show would just be—well, real life. Ironic, isn’t it?

Back to me. Assuming I could answer all of the questions correctly, I’m certain there is some sort of Bachelor vetting process that occurs. Interviews, camera tests, head shots, etc. are all done. I had a law clerk who tried out for the short-lived show “The Cougar” as one of the dudes looking to hook up with an older woman. They took him into some giant room and told him to strip down to his boxer shorts and “make love to the camera.” Look, I could jog pearl snap shirtless down by the river side, wander longingly through fields of bluebonnets while contemplating the location of my one true love, and even tell a sappy story about unrequited love, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to make love to a camera.

Three reasons why I couldn’t be the next bachelor:

1. I can actually dance. Not fast dance like girls do in a circle with each other at some trendy martini bar while the heaviest one sits in the corner sipping a glass of wine and watching all of the purses, but slow dance. I’m not Fred Astaire, but I can count to four and move my feet.

2. I can’t cry on cue. I realize that this isn’t a deal breaker, but it seems to be an unspoken qualification over the past couple of seasons.

3. I don’t pretend very well. There’s not a lot of pretense I’m capable of putting on. Like Popeye or the Burning Bush, I am who I am. Faking things in the name of reality would be difficult for me. I think I’d be able to narrow the field to five women after the first cocktail party.

Here’s a picture of my entire season if I were selected:

Day 1 of DP’s Bachelorette Search: Take a cross section of 25 people to whom I might be attracted. In other words, body type, age, hair color, interests, etc. Out of those 25, I’d opine that 1/3 of them wouldn’t work even on a good day. Give or take, it’s simple odds. That leaves 18 women. Of those 18, I’d have to figure that there are at least three lushes, three crazies, and three with major daddy issues in the bunch. All of that can be determined with the simple introduction of free alcohol and a stress filled environment. In Bach terms, this is known as the first cocktail party. Again, it’s simple math. That leaves 9 women. Of those 9, there are at least 3 who simply would not be attracted to me once they got beyond appearance and opening small talk. That leaves 6. Now we’re talking.

Day 2: I would have Harrison’s minion drop a date card at the mansion door—podium or no podium, it’s irrelevant. The date card would simply read, “Be Ready in 35 Minutes.” Of those 6 women, 2 of them would melt down like Kilimanjaro magma because they would be overwhelmed at the vagueness of the message. What do I wear? Where are we going? Panic, panic, panic. We all know the type. One woman would cry but pull it together in order to be ready. The remaining three would quietly walk upstairs and in a calm, collected manner select something seasonal, practical, and versatile before throwing the hair into a ponytail, applying an acceptable amount of make up, packing a small bag containing a sweater, lip gloss, a sweater, scented lotion, and a few odds and ends, and putting on comfortable shoes. 35 minutes later, 3 women would appear in the driveway and one would remain upstairs primping in the mirror. I’d leave her to primp.

Now before everyone get’s their push up bras in a knot, let me explain. I am not saying that all women should be able to get ready for a mysterious event in 35 minutes or less all of the time. Of course, there are exceptions like anniversaries, special events, holidays when a woman should be allowed days of preparation. I get that. There are also nights out, social events, and day to day things where a woman can take her time to get ready. I have no problem with that either. What I’m looking for here is spontaneity, security, confidence, and an appreciation of doing something fun with me. The when and where really isn’t important and a person—any person—should be able to dress and be ready for anything in 35 minutes under these circumstances. Every woman should have a 2 minute hurry up offense in her play book—at least any woman I’m with.

Back to me. With three low-maintenance, spontaneous women in the limo, I’d break out the Lone Stars and announce that the Fantasy Suite dates were about to begin. Over the next three days, I’d spend a day with each woman doing the things that I enjoy doing while trying to get to know them better. Each night would be followed by a fancy date of her choosing and an option for the Fantasy Suite. Then, on the fourth day, I’d contemplate. On the fifth day, I’d decide and BINGO, my decision would be made. I’d need a total of 5 shows at most. That’s half a season. Anti-climactic? Perhaps. Realistic? I think so. Oh, and I wouldn’t propose either. I’d put that big ring in trust just in case the one I picked turned out to be Third Date Crazy.

And that, my faithful readers, is why I could never be the next Bachelor. I’ll stick to blogging and my occasional meet and greet. Thanks to all of you for sticking around and reading. As announcements are made and the time rolls on, I’ll be posting and I hope you’ll be commenting. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be sipping a Lone Star somewhere in South Austin. DP

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Bachelor Pad Episode 7: Thursday Posts Don't Come Easy

Hello readers and welcome to the Thursday post. It’s been an interesting couple of days for me and I’m anxious to get this post out of the way and put the Bachelor Pad to bed like Elizabeth after a few glasses of wine. I had an interesting Tuesday and Wednesday night and will share some of those details at the end of this post. No cheating! With that said, let’s get to it.

We begin in the designated After the Rose studio undoubtedly located in some seedy section of East Los Angeles in some innocuous looking run down warehouse with a crumbling asphalt parking lot littered with empty spray paint cans, trash, and drug paraphernalia. It’s like the Bat Cave except it’s not located in the side of a cliff and rather than computers and crime fighting equipment it’s filled with soft lighting and scented candles.

We cut to the standard Oprah-esque overly excited women in the crowd cheering shots as we all sat down with our respective beverages ready to see who will take home the cash. Harrison emerges dressed a lot like Bruce Wayne in the same outfit he wore at the mansion whenever the Kovacs and Elizabeth got a glass slipper to the rear end.

I realize that was probably just a fancy wardrobe trick used by the show in order to create the illusion that the live taping occurred right after the ceremony at the mansion. However, I preferred to picture Harrison running out after that ceremony to partake in a 4 day booze binge at various questionable establishments across L.A. I pictured him waking up covered in co-eds at a USC sorority house, looking at his super-expensive watch, and gathering his gray suit and vest, and departing to a cheery chorus of “byyyyee Chris. . .,” as he tightened his black tie, winked at himself in the hallway mirror, and hit the limo in order to make to the studio on time. After some cold water to the face, a chilled scotch on the rocks, and a couple of whip its, he’s ready to host. Man, Harrison is Money.

Smiling and alert, Harrison introduces “Melissa Rycroft-Strickland . . . and a half” as she smiles, revels in her hyphenated status, and turns sideways to show us her baby bump. Well, it could have been that she just ate a peanut for dinner but I like to think positively. I’m a “the womb is half full” kind of guy.

After more recaps and some pre-recorded canned shots of the adequately cross-sectioned audience, we meet the former cast members who will be hemming and hawing for the next hour until voting for the couple they hate the least. McCheesy and his hair, Weatherman and his latent homosexuality, Jessie and her patent bitterness, Krisily and her ridiculous name, Peyton and her valley girl accent, Jesse B. and his ingrown leg hair, Juan and his arrogance, Gwen and her question marks, Ashley and her anonymity, Michelle and her other personalities, Nikki and her fun sponge, Wes and his ever-present guitar, Gia and her lisp, Elizabeth (now a brunette) and her boat load of crazy, and Kovacs and his regret all sit atop the stage with smiles on their faces and alcohol coursing through their veins ready to pounce on the remaining four.

In perhaps the most unsurprising development since the sun rising and waves crashing on the beach, we learn that—GASP!—Kovacs and Elizabeth are no longer a couple. After pretending to wipe the Lone Star from my nose, I listened intently. What could have gone wrong, I asked? They seemed so happy. Alas, we learn that even bonds as strong as the one between these two schmucks are subject to be broken. Maybe Kovacs prefers blondes to brunettes. Perhaps Elizabeth wants to meet the real Nick Lachey instead of his look alike. Who knows? I suspect her being certifiably crazy played a small role in that decision. It’s a damn good thing I had a box of tissues handy. I used one to wipe the tears from my eyes after laughing so hard I cried.

Memo to Elizabeth: Don’t blame Kovacs for taking what you offered for free and don’t pretend you “don’t do casual” relationships. What you did was tantamount to the fat woman at the grocery store handing me a free sample of whatever on a toothpick and then complaining that I didn’t pay for it. If you leave the barn door wide open, someone’s going to walk through it. Close your barn door. Perhaps you’ll make better decisions as a brunette. Oh, and the foundation that the hair and make-up folks put on your sun-damaged skin did wonders for your appearance. Buy a bottle. You’re a pretty woman. Remind yourself of that the next time you plan to throw your cooch at someone like a 9th inning fastball.

We next get a shot of the effervescent Gia. The fact that she’s effervescent is ironic, because with that speech thing she’s got going on, she probably can’t pronounce that word correctly. To be fair, she looked fantastic. I know I’ll take a lot of grief in the comments for that sentence, but faults aside, she’s hot. Gia is carefully placed next to Wes and his carefully tussled hair and semi-graying pseudo-beard. After confirming that she’s no longer dating a Canadian because he lives in Canada, Gia confirms that she and Wes are indeed an item. The last time I checked, Canada is closer to New York than Texas. Details.

Wes drops a “bad boys need love too” and kisses Gia’s injected lips to a round of applause. Simultaneously, in the backyard of a starter home in Denton, Texas a certain former tattletale, former actor, and looking-for-work pilot twitched as he tried desperately to shoo the chickens who had come home to roost in his gazebo. Completing the circle of Wes’ image rebuilding campaign, Harrison acknowledges Wes’ miraculous turn around from the worst guy in reality show history to the guy that landed the hottest chick on the filler show and confirms that ABC is done f*cking with his life. Nice job, Wes. Pearl snaps and boots trump a hockey shirt and skates any day of the week.

After all, he’s been told a time or two, doncha know, you gotta be strong. She’ll do you wrong. She’ll do you right sometimes. And the before you know it, she’ll be gone. But Wes found a woman who’s right on time. Could I fall in love, he asked, could she be all mine? They say that love don’t come easy and if you fall to quick you must be wrong. But he’s got a feeling, he believes in that loving you Gia don’t take that long.

I don’t know what’s more pathetic: the fact that I know the words to that song or the fact that I learned them from watching the show. Regardless, Wes and Gia seemed happy. Good for them.

We finally get to the business at hand as Kip-Ten and Angry Da-Natalie (Jackass) enter, ready to run the gauntlet in order to collect the jack. For some reason, ABC selected the Spin Doctor’s “Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong” as the entry song. I found that really odd.

At any rate, Tenley is—you guessed it—so happy that she giggles freely until confirming that Kiptyn is indeed her “boyfriend.” Someone needs to remind her that she’s in her mid-twenties and not her mid-teens. I pictured Kiptyn pinning a homecoming mum on her taffeta dress while his buddies ran around the back of the garage to retrieve the pilfered booze for the limo ride on the way to the dance.

Angry Dave (jackass) and Natalie confirm their “long distance relationship” and I sighed because I knew that really means that he flies to Wherever, Illinois once a month for a late night, post-binge drinking, bang session at whatever hotel was auctioning off that weekend. “Get to the questions,” I said aloud as I sipped my Lone Star and prayed Michelle would say something crazy.

Melissarycroftstrickland gets the lead in as she struggles to read the tele-prompter in front of her face. To be fair, her ponytail was stretched so tightly that her vision must have been impaired. She’s married and knocked up so what does she care? Jessie the Narc pretends that she and Angry Dave (jackass) had something beyond a strategic hot tub make out session and Natalie pretends she didn’t indiscriminately sleep with Angry Dave (jackass). Krisily ignores her silly name and calls Angry Dave (jackass) out for almost sort of lying to her. Aware that stepping on toes will lose him votes, Angry Dave fights back the Dianabol rush to his brain and manages an apology. Jackass.

Peyton busts Kiptyn’s balls and Gia does an about face and actually defends Nikki. Why didn’t he pick her instead of Tenley? Because Cinderella is hotter than Sandra Bullock’s older brother in drag, that’s why. Wes looked bored.

Michelle makes the mistake of trying to get the best of an exchange with Tenley by pretending she didn’t make out with McCheesy and Tenley takes the high road by apologizing. Hey Jake, I hope you watched that. THAT’S how you handle a crazy, angry, immature, irrational person who wants to confront you. You sit there, smile politely, nod your head, and let that person spew crazy like a run away fire hose. Sure, you may get a little wet, but when it’s all over, it’s the fire hose that gets blamed. Michelle actually got booed and as it was happening I pictured Dopey, Grumpy, Doc, Sleepy, Bashful, Sneezy, and Happy standing on their chairs in the back row rooting for Tenley.

Before all four finalists are actually asked to beg for the money, Angry Dave does some damage control and I was actually impressed at his sincerity. You could tell he wanted the money and I have to give him credit for keeping it together. He’s still—say it with me—a jackass. Wes scores points by referring to Gia as “a million dollars right here” and I prayed that Harrison would jump in and offer him the money in exchange for Gia just to see what he would do. No such luck. After some appropriately placed ooo’s and ahhh’s, we move to the Glengarry Glen Ross portion of the show as the remaining four attempt to close the deal.

Natalie loves everyone—boy, didn’t that statement prove to be true—and had fun too. No sh*t. She’s going to pay off her debt, give some money to charity, and pass on some cash to mom and dad. Tax code, Schmax Code.

Angry Dave (jackass)—touts himself as honest and fair, owns his comment about Gwen being too old to be on a “dating show” before Gwen reminds him that she was there for the money, and absorbs some boo’s all in his quest for the mula. Again, he deserves credit. I actually believed him. Jackass.

Tenley—Reminds us how f*cking bubbly she is before alluding to her D-I-V-O-R-C-E and her plans to build individual huts for all seven dwarfs after repaying her parents for the financial help after she lost her virginity to her two-timing husband and was forced to get a D-I-V-O-R-C-E. She tells us that she’s “not gonna lie” but will also “have a little fun too.” Perhaps she can book a trip on that rocket ship.

Kiptyn—Does a poor job begging for the money because everyone knows he’s rich. He pulls out the “I’ll give a bunch to charity” card and Wes Hayden perked up hoping that Kiptyn would consider the Wes Hayden Band a viable charity.

In another ill-founded effort to tarnish the shiny aura surrounding Tenley, Juan actually questions what she’s done to be a finalist. Jessie—in an attempt to prolong her fifteenth minute—points out that Tenley is the second best pie eater next to Gia and Juan gets put in his place by the booing crowd. I think that deserves a “jackass.”

The voting begins:

McCheesy Kip-Ten
Weatherman Kip-Ten
Jessie Dave-Nat (this one surprised me)
Krisily Dave-Nat (this one did too)
Peyton Dave-Nat (makes sense)
Jesse Dave-Nat (same reason as Peyton)
Juan Kip-Ten
Gwen Kip-Ten
Ashley Dave-Nat
Michelle Dave-Nat
Nikki Dave-Nat (I thought she might stick with Kiptyn)
Wes Dave-Nat (the more I thought about it, the more this one made sense)

After seeing Wes’ deciding vote, the entire stage turns into a homo-erotic mess as the Weatherman hugs Juan (Harrison should have asked them if they are together), Dave hugs everyone (jackass) and Kovacs tries to hold it together. . .but wait. There’s a twist and Harrison is about to turn the screws.

There is one prize and Angry Dave (jackass) and Natalie must decide one final time. Here are the options.

1. They both vote “Share” and they split the prize evenly

2. One votes “Keep” and the other votes “Share” and the keeper keeps the money

3. They both vote “Keep” and everyone else gets $16,666.66.

After “deliberation” security guards escort Natalie and Dave (jackass) to their seats. Apparently, there was at least a perceived danger of someone hijacking their cardboard answer cards. Security guards? Odd. Angry Dave (jackass) picks “Share” and Natalie forces him to sweat it out until ultimately revealing her “Share” card as well and they both get 125 grand. Actually, their moves weren’t as altruistic as they seem. Speaking strictly from an odds perspective, “share” was the most logical choice since it guaranteed each person the money. Granted, a “keep” would have doubled the cash, but it could have also been a big fat zero. I would have done the same thing. However, I’ve never wanted to see the word “Keep” emboldened on a cardboard cutout so badly in my life. Regardless, they both seemed thrilled and—at the end of this very long season—I’ll say that they deserved the cash as much as anybody else. Like I’ve said before, perfect moments in life are difficult to come by and regardless of my opinion of Jackass and Natalie, I was happy for both of them.

Until next time . . . oh, wait, I forgot something.

Alright, I’m afraid I’ve got good news and bad news for the readers here. I did indeed meet a certain music playing member of the cast of this show and members of a particular band for a few Lone Star Beers (all on my tab) the other night. I did indeed gather some juicy information. HOWEVER, I was specifically told not to print any of it in the blog because of contractual obligations of the aforementioned certain music playing member of the cast of the show. A Five Million Dollar contractual obligation. However, in the spirit of delivering on my promise, Email me at with your specific questions and I’ll answer them accordingly. All inquiries will be answered as fast as I can get to them. I just can’t print it here. In the meantime, enjoy the link below.

Thank you all from the bottom of my Texan heart for reading this season. A special thanks to Lincee Ray for her friendship and encouragement this season. Keep in touch on Facebook by becoming a fan on my Guy in Austin page and look for regular posts in the off season. I’ll post some of my ideas on Tuesday and let y’all vote on what you would like me to write about. Suggestions are always welcome. Please take care of yourselves, look for Meet and Greet Postings, and stay in touch. Feel free to drop me a line if you’re ever in Austin, Texas. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be trying to hook up with Natalie and her 125 grand. DP

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Bachelor Pad Episode 6: Hey, Check out Dave's Gay Outfit!

We’re finally done with Bachelor Pad. Well, in theory anyway. I’m certain that the parade of publicity that inevitably follows in the wake of a Bachelor-type finale will continue for a while. I have to confess that I opted to forgo my usual routine of secluding myself in my writer’s lair (that’s what I call my living room on Monday nights) and pecking away at the keyboard until all hours of the night in order to venture out and meet a soon-to-be-named B-Pad insider for some juicy scoop. That made for a long night and, frankly, I’m cranky. Nonetheless, I will press on—a tortured soul--for the sake of my art. Now, I just need to figure out what body part to cut off and to whom to mail it when I’m done.

As always, thank you all for taking the time to read and comment on the blog this season. We were forced to endure some pretty horrible ABC programming and I hope that this blog somehow made the sacrifice of watching it a little more bearable. We’ve got about 3 months of down time now and I realize that some of you will take that time to fill your Monday nights with football and other important things in your respective lives. I will continue to post on Tuesdays and will keep you all posted via this site and my Facebook page with what to expect. If you plan to check out for a few months, please at least visit me once or twice. I get lonely sometimes. With that said, let’s get to it.

We begin the episode with ABC’s latest effort at shameless cross-promotion by being reminded that the final contestants will set the dance floor afire by being forced to don ridiculous outfits and perform various ballroom dances on national television. Pretty soon the entire network is going to morph into offering one big variety show like the Mandrell sisters had in the 80’s. I sighed. By the way, even though Barbara was the most talented of the Mandrell sisters, I always had a crush on Louise. Most people would say that Irlene was the hot one, but she couldn’t sing or play any instruments. Yes, Louise was the hottest. Annnnyyyyhoooo . . . Because it’s a finale show, Harrison shows up early and let’s us know via one of his typical, scripted overstatements that “something big is about to take place.” I sighed again.

We cut to the after-the-rose pre-drinking binge pow wow as Angry Dave (jackass) tells us that it’s now down to the “Super 6.” Actually, he might have said “Stupid 6” but I wasn’t paying close attention. Angry Dave reiterates his secret homosexual pact with Kovacs as visions of long, silent, hand-holding walks down the beach on Fire Island and meaningful glances exchanged as he and Kovacs sip sangria and watch the whales frolic in the ocean from the balcony of their upper deck cruise ship suite on an Alaskan cruise liner dance through his head. Jackass. Natalie drops a “pacts are bulls*it” and I smiled at the silliness of it all. Everyone “makes a cheers” and goes to bed in anticipation of winning the cash.

After the obligatory sleepy eyes and bed head kitchen scene, Harrison shows up in blue linen and khakis looking well-rested and ready to roll. He’s all business in these shows. 250 grand is his yearly bar bill at the local strip club, but he’s a professional and knows how to act like it’s a ton of cash. After all, it’s the “most important competition” to date and the winning couple gets a pass into the final ceremony where they will be judged by their bitter, ax grinding peers in an effort to secure the 250 large. Harrison tells us that the purpose of the test is both physical and mental and with a grin bigger than his home town of Dallas (yes, Harrison is a Texan), announces that ballroom dancing is on the agenda.

Angry Dave looks—well, angry (jackass) and Tenley does her best to hide the wonderful explosion of head to toe joy bouncing around in her magical body. Kovacs looks defeated, pissed, and was so over Elizabeth at that point I actually felt sorry for the guy. Kiptyn doesn’t “dance around the house.” Who does besides Tenley? Tenely has had ballet, jazz, and tap and is confident of her foundation and Elizabeth laments the wasted days of her youth before her skin and hair were ravished by the sun like a young boy on a pirate ship. She pretends like spending the next six hours locked in a dance studio with Kovacs will be good for their relationship. Fat chance.

Limos arrive and spirit the quarter million dollar hopefuls away for their lessons. Tenley giggles, Natalie and Angry Dave (jackass) talk strategy. Keeping it classy is always a good idea but apparently not an option as Kovacs moves in for a mansion-to-studio romp before the limo door is even closed. Elizabeth provides some foreshadowing as she hopes that they don’t get a female dance instructor as the guys in the production van hit the mute button on their mikes and laughed hysterically.

Upon arrival, Tenley squeals like a stuck pig when she lays eyes upon her instructor, Chelsea Hightower. You’ll have to forgive me for not knowing who the f*ck any of these people are. I’m unmarried and straight. Ergo, I don’t watch Dancing with the Stars. Elizabeth, upon laying eyes on Edyta turns into a jealous mess of bad hair as she laments the wasted days of her youth before her skin and hair were ravished by the sun like a young boy on a pirate ship. Angry Dave meets Louis Van Something and does a nice job containing his desire to kill him for being as queer as a Mexican tablecloth. Jackass.

Kovacs and Elizabeth learn that they will be rumba-ing the rumba and Kovacs falls instantly in love with Edyta and her skimpy black “dress.” The Russian accent didn’t hurt either. I will admit that she was ridiculously hot and I empathized with his dilemma. At that point, Elizabeth was nothing more than a buzz kill, but hey, he made his bed, right? To be fair to Kovacs, I’ll see if I can explain what a man in his dancing shoes was feeling. How do I put it in woman terms? Seeing Edyta evokes the same feeling in a man as when women see Brad Pitt and his blonde locks ride up on his horse after corralling the stampeding herd in Legends of the Fall or, for the younger readers, seeing Robert Pattison incessantly brood and sparkle in those stupid vampire movies. You get the picture. Flutter, flutter, swoon, swoon. Now picture Brad or Robert coming over to you in order to teach you the rumba only to look next to you and see some dolt you’ve been planning on dumping looking at you like a lost puppy. For Kovacs, it was--in a word--brutal. Elizabeth laments the wasted days of her youth before her skin and hair were ravished by the sun like a young boy on a pirate ship.

In the meantime, Tenley and Kiptyn are having a simply fabulous time learning the foxtrot despite having difficulty keeping Tenley from floating away like Peter Pan. Angry Dave (jackass) wrestles with his homophobia and Natalie puts socks on her elbows in order to buck up and learn the Cha Cha. Elizabeth continues to melt down as Edyta crawls all over Kovacs like the crabs in Natalie’s bed sheets.

Eventually, Tenley gives Kiptyn a chance to “take the reins” of her magical dancing sleigh and lead her around the floor. By the way, why did Chelsea what’s her name actually have to tell Kiptyn it was ok to take the lead? Am I freaking crazy or is it just guys in Texas that grow up learning to lead a lady around the dance floor? Who doesn’t know how to freaking dance, for crying out loud? I’m not talking about the rumba, the cha cha, or the foxtrot, but any guy who grew up in Texas knows that learning at a bare minimum how to two step is like learning how to ride a bike. Awestruck, I took a big pull off of my Lone Star beer bottle and shook my head as Kiptyn fumbled around Tenley’s giggly waist as if he was looking for a handle. She’s a pretty girl, not a vacuum cleaner, Kiptyn. Put the surfboard and minoxidil down for a bit and take some dance lessons. Oh, the humanity!

Dave gets angry (jackass) and Natalie—despite the socks on her arms—is just not getting the Cha Cha. The gay guy compares the Cha Cha to having sex in the mansion in order to get Natalie’s attention. At least he knew what language she spoke. Natalie tells the camera that she and Dave (jackass) are “sexual, aggressive people” and is confident that she can perform the head toss because she and Dave (jackass) are used to those types of positions. God bless her poor father. I wonder if he’s aware that he raised a slut.

We see more of Edyta’s phenomenal teaching skills and wonder if Elizabeth plans to shank her in the jugular between takes. Kovacs pushes past his priapism in order to focus. Kiptyn and Tenley realize that they need to win and it becomes clear that despite my constant haranguing, they make a good team. I suppose the same is true for Natalie and Angry Dave. He’s still a jackass. Kovacs inexplicably tells the camera that he’s “been working so hard” over the past few weeks in order to get to the final. I suppose he’s right about the “so hard” part and perhaps Elizabeth would agree. Drinking and screwing can be hard . . . I guess. In the meantime, Elizabeth laments the wasted days of her youth before her skin and hair were ravished by the sun like a young boy on a pirate ship.

Wardrobe selection happens and I took boyish delight in seeing what Angry Dave (jackass) was forced to wear if he wanted any shot at the moola. I’ll get to him in a minute. Natalie wore some pink and white thing that showed off a lot of her things. She looked like a really slutty, gay yak. She’s no Louis St. Whoever, but she rocked it. Kovacs dressed up like Tom Jones and continued to turn into Nick Lachey. Kiptyn—of course—wore a princely tuxedo in order to compliment the gorgeous and elegant yet not overstated purple gown that Tenley selected. She probably has one at home that she lounges in after dusting her crystal figurine collection. Elizabeth wore her own version of Cha Cha DeGregorio’s prom dress and lamented the wasted days of her youth before her skin and hair were ravished by the sun like a young boy on a pirate ship.

Angry Dave’s outfit gets its own paragraph. Jackass. He sported a black, sequined jumpsuit opened up just past the tip of his pee pee. I smiled with joy as I pictured the homosexual panic undoubtedly going on between his ears. That thing was G.A.Y. gay. Seriously, it was so flamboyant that Liberace wouldn’t wear it. It was so gay that Melissa Etheridge tried to marry it. It looked like something Anderson Cooper would wear to jazzercise. I mean that thing was super gay. The shaved torso and carefully sculpted and moussed Caesar cut completed the look. All he needed was a mustache. What. A. Jack. Ass.

Upon seeing Dave in his Elton John back up dancer outfit, Harrison fights back the urge to laugh hysterically as he tells the contestants that they will be judged on performance, chemistry, and effort before announcing the most predicable set of “judges” in history. We see why Rycroft-Strickland (did she mention she’s married and pregnant?) has been gainfully employed doing nothing for the past five weeks. Of course, Trista shows up (did she mention she married Ryan after finding love on ABC and now has a bunch of kids?). And then there’s the Douchebag from Denton.

Normally, I don’t delight in other people’s failures, but Jake’s are an exception for me. He was such an arrogant, condescending, a-hole before, during, and after his season that I felt happy when he awkwardly appeared to a smattering of forced applause. He looked about as uncomfortable as Vienna’s lazy eye at an optometrist’s office and I loved it. Jackass. Jake lamented the wasted days of his youth before his skin and hair were ravished by the sun like a young boy on a pirate ship. He wishes he was a young boy on a pirate ship.

Harrison lets everyone know that they will be scored on a scale from 1 to 10. Elizabeth and Natalie were excited to hear that because they are both normally somewhere between a 6 and a 9.

You know, sometimes I make myself laugh. That last joke was one of those times.

Kiptyn and Tenley go first and despite Kiptyn looking like he was stomping grapes in Kovacs’ winery instead of dancing, did really well. They get 26 generous points. Kovacs and Elizabeth are next and were literally unwatchable. Rumba shmumba. She’s the worst dancer at St. Bachelorettes . . . with the worst reputation. They got a sympathetic 24 points. Appropriately, Angry Dave “brings up the rear” in his outfit as he and Natalie attempt the cha cha to some music the producers stole from the lobby of the W Hotel. They actually did well, but fell one point short of victory with a 25. Beating Tenley at ballroom dancing is like beating her at giggling. It can’t happen.

Kiptyn is pleased he got to win AND not look gay doing it. Tenley and Kiptyn skip back to the mansion as she leaves a trail of sparkly fairy dust for the others to follow. Angry Dave (jackass) and Kovacs pour over their loss as disappointment fills the air. After all, 250 grand would have paid for a lot of laser chest hair removal treatments. For some reason, they didn’t take off their ridiculous costumes. Perhaps they both found them oddly comfortable. Hmmmm.

Elizabeth looks annoyed as Tenley and Kiptyn giggle. Kovacs just looked annoyed. Elizabeth prays that Kovacs’ outfit chaffed him in his nether regions as she begs for time “to lick our wounds.” Natalie retires to the study in the mansion with a copy of Moby Dick. She likes that book not because she’s a Melville fan but because it has the word “dick” in it. Come to think of it, there’s a pirate ship in it too.

Harrison shows up in a grey coat and tie with a gray shirt and black vest. His color scheme is a harbinger of bad news. “Ding, ding, ding,” quoth the ubiquitous champagne flute and fork, nevermore. Harrison gives everyone their eviction papers from the mansion and the stress begins. Kiptyn and Tenley have the power, Harrison tells us, and the decision will be made momentarily.

Elizabeth continues the delusion that in the context of this show that love is more important than money. Kiptyn and Tenley stress over sending “good friends” home. Incidentally, these are the same “friends” who would have booted them to the curb with no questions asked if Angry Dave (jackass) and his costume would have cha cha-ed into the lead. Angry Dave, content with his performance up to this point, wonders if fate will have a hand in the night’s decision. Apparently, he’s a Calvinist in addition to being a jackass. Interesting.

Natalie pretends that she and Angry Dave (jackass) plan on moving to the same city and downplays her lie to Tenley last week. Kiptyn hears Kovacs plea for leniency and Natalie works on Tenley. Ultimately, Kiptyn and Tenley pick Angry Dave and Natalie to accompany them to the final. Frankly, I was surprised, but what the hell do I know? Elizabeth is bummed, but still delusional. Kovacs begins plotting how to rid himself of the crazy girl and they both hit their limos for the long ride to the airport as we head into the big, live finale where the former housemates will vote for the winning couple and a big twist will be revealed.

Without tipping my hand, I have a big night ahead of me tonight. It involves some Lone Star beers with a certain person associated with this show and plans to be both juicy and revealing. With that in mind, you’ll have to trust me that I’ll deliver the goods on Thursday when I’ll post my recap of the final show along with my good inside dirt. Hint? Let’s just say that Austin, Texas is a small town.

Thanks to all of you from the bottom of my heart for reading and responding all season. Please take care of yourselves, check back for my Thursday post, and PLEASE stay in touch. Until Thursday, if you need me, I’ll be getting fitted for my cha cha costume. DP

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Bachelor Pad Episode 5: Trojans Anyone?

Hello. I hope that everyone had a wonderful and fulfilling Labor Day weekend. As usual, I over did it but have no regrets. I have to admit that the Monday holiday did throw off my usual blog writing routine and rhythm but I’m going to do my best to put out a quality work product. As for my latest reader requests, I’ve had interest in both Dallas and Tulsa meet and greets and one filthy invitation from some guy named “Madonna” who lives outside of Sacramento. I’m considering two of the three. Your suggestions are welcome. My “real” life work schedule dictates where I travel, so I’ll be sure and keep everyone up to speed.

Also, the big finale and cast tells all episodes for this stupid show are next week. After that, I assume that there’s a lag between seasons. I plan to post in the off season and might post twice a week if time allows. I will promise the normal Tuesday post, but I need suggestions from you as to what you’d like to see. Please give me a break from reality television. I might do another DP Tells All depending on interest and I have some other ideas brewing inside my head. Let me know what y’all think. In the meantime, let’s get to it.

We begin with the standard reminder that there are couples and singles in the house and that, to date, two have been more powerful than one. We get the Nostradamas-like “I told you so” from Wes as he leaves the show after predicting that everyone’s failure to break up the couple alliances would lead to his demise. We are reminded that there are four couples in the house and three single women remaining. We see that Angry Dave (jackass) and Kovacs’ relationship is the most productive of them all and are reminded how Angry Dave screwed over Krisily last week by assuring her safety before she was summarily booted to the curb. Jackass.

In the new regular post-rose ceremony round up Kovacs tells us that he’s not sorry to see Krisily go, Peyton feels badly for everyone, Tenley sparkles and shines and can’t get mad at anyone, and Gwen sits silently as she concentrates in an attempt to keep her carotid arteries from closing under the weight of her giant turquoise necklace. That might explain the dim personality. I’m just saying. Angry Dave uses the “we” made a decision justification for lying to Krisily and feels better about himself than he already does. Jackass. We move next to the standard A.M. kitchen scene. With Natalie and Elizabeth upstairs taking showers and their morning after pills, Gwen has a chance to talk to Peyton in the kitchen. We get a close up of the bedazzled rose t-shirt covering her giant, fake cans as she explains that this is the only rose she has. Sigh.

Harrison enters in his plaid, semi-western but non-pearl snap untucked shirt and khakis in order to set up the big news. Rycroft was unnoticeably absent. Presumably, she was out getting Harrison’s dry cleaning and picking up his tailored rose ceremony suit while simultaneously handling the “there’s a left over hooker in Harrison’s suite” problem.

Harrison reiterates the rules . . . again . . . and drops the hammer. Eleven remain, but three chicks are leaving immediately. We’ll convene on the driveway after Harrison showers up, dons turquoise, and is damn good and ready to begin. Harrison tells all the women to pack their sh*t and then hits the road for some eggs Benedict, a mimosa, and a nap. The stress begins.

At this point in the show, I became visibly annoyed. Granted, I was watching it by myself, but I still did some huffing and puffing and put my Lone Star bottle down on the coffee table with enough force to make it bubble over. After licking the beer from the table, I began to ponder aloud. “Why don’t they just call a spade a spade?” I thought. “Just kick off the girls who don’t put out.” Nikki, Gwen, and Ashley might as well have been cows in a slaughterhouse. We all knew it was inevitable, but we were forced to watch the next 15 minutes in order to confirm it.

Knowing that none of the remaining guys like bitter, unfun Sandra Bullock in a trick mirror look alikes, Nikki—oblivious of cardiac anatomy--tells us “the back of my heart is pounding so bad right now that I can feel it in my bones.” Whatever that means. Ashley does math—or something like it—and opines that she might be gone. To be fair, fractions are hard. Of course, Natalie tells us that it’s “survival of the fittest” and I began to wonder where the Midwestern Whore fits into Darwin’s theory of natural selection.

Actually, it does make sense. Darwin theorized that individuals less suited to the environment are less likely to survive and less likely to reproduce while individuals more suited to the environment are more likely to survive and more likely to reproduce and leave their inheritable traits to future generations, i.e., natural selection. That process results in populations changing to adapt to their environments, and ultimately, these variations accumulate over time to form new species. Ergo, the Midwestern variation of the North American Whore. This sub-species of whore can easily be distinguished from the West Coast sub-species of the North American Whore in that it has less skin damage and healthier looking hair although it is more averse to heat. (Compare Elizabeth). Both are easier to bang than a cheap set of pots and pans; however the Midwestern Whore prefers frequent, multiple partners whereas the West Coast Whore prefers to obsess over a single partner until she sucks all of the life out of it and kills it. Back to the show.

Harrison arrives all Moneyed up in his turquoise shirt with Rycroft in some denim short short get up. Did she mention that, unlike the three desperate women who failed to hook up in a house full of horny, drunk dudes, she has in fact found love and marriage and is expecting her first child? The men will be randomly selected via some sort of spin the bottle mechanism and they will choose their partner. If you’re not selected, Harrison is sorry to tell you, but you need to piss off immediately.

Kiptyn spins first and selects Tenley after pretending Nikki was an option. Tenley is fu*king happy and Nikki feels betrayed but packs her multiple sets of giant earrings and hits the road. Kovacs—in a prime position to dodge the bullet train of crazy headed straight for his life—picks Elizabeth despite referring to her in his testimonial as “unstable” with a “screw loose. He decides to go with his “gut feeling” and picks Elizabeth anyway. Actually, I’m certain he was thinking a bit below the gut when he selected her. Frankly, I was surprised that he didn’t kiss Angry Dave. Jackass. Elizabeth acts overjoyed and is happy they can show affection at the house. Clearly, she’s in denial that Kovacs and Angry Dave (jackass) haven’t been swapping “you’ll never believe what I did with Elizabeth in bed” stories over whatever stupid drink they like for the past six months.

Next, Jesse B.—the only real wild card of the bunch—plays it safe and picks Peyton. Frankly, she was his best pick. He actually acts older than he is and has some nice words for the ladies. Ultimately, he made the right choice. Peyton is “like totally” happy to be picked even though she’ll soon endure some more of Jesse’s lack of sophistication. Angry Dave is last, proving that even inanimate objects like spinning bottles think he’s a jackass. He drops one of the best lines of the season by telling the remaining 4 ladies that “you guys are awesome, classy, but I gotta go with Natalie.” I smiled, sipped my beer and laughed out loud. Translation: You’re all average looking and you don’t put out. I’ve got to go with the drunk, slutty chick. Jackass.

Nikki, Gwen, and Ashley feel sad, rejected, and realize that they won’t have a cool 250K to talk to on lonely nights. We all realize that Wes Hayden was a prophet this season and we pictured him talking to a burning bush. Speaking of a burning bush, Elizabeth unnecessarily kicked Gwen on the way out by saying that she “feels sorry for her.” Sure, it stings to be rejected, but Gwen and the other girls will eventually realize that it’s a lot more difficult to earn respect than it is money. They’ll all be better off. I’m sure that the remaining contestants were all happy at the vast amount of room left in the mansion after the girls left along with three suitcases full of dignity. On her way out, Ashley expresses disappointment but loses with class saying that “every girl wants to be swept off her feet.” No, Ashley, unfortunately for you, girls like Elizabeth and Natalie just want to be thrown on their backs.

Back at the mansion, Tenley, Natalie, and Peyton wish for an athletic competition while Elizabeth hopes that all of the knowledge she’s gained by stalking Kovacs will come in handy. She and Kovacs “practice” for the big competition and we realize that she has no short term memory. What a mess. Kovacs continues to bad mouth her to the camera which—as we will soon see—will become important later. Natalie drinks the Crystal Light powder she mixed into a bottle of water and refers to Angry Dave as a “real man.” Jackass. Actually, come to think of it, that might have been liquid antibiotic. Regardless, she’s delusional.

Tenley and Kiptyn exchange information by sucking it out of each other’s brains and she refers to them as “Kip-Ten.” I found that “Stu-Pid.” In the meantime, Peyton enjoys watching Jesse pick at ingrown leg hairs with drywall screws and eat bananas. I half expected him to bear his teeth and throw feces at her. Look, the guy is from Peculiar, Missouri and he’s 25 years old. He proved himself to be a stand up guy in both Ali’s season and on this show. Sure he’s not an Astor or a Rockefeller, but polished and proper is boring and fake. Jesse’s a real guy and I like that about him.

The remaining 8 arrive for the water balloon tossing contest as Harrison and the yellow watch he loaned to Jake last season explains the rules. Rycroft takes over and explains that broken water balloons are like a woman’s breast: One is not enough and Three is too many. White shorts and tanks rule the day for the women as the men don baggy work out shorts and various versions of the cut off muscle shirt. Kiptyn keeps it classy with plaid shorts. Elizabeth says that the contest is “nuts,” which is ironic because . . . oh, you all know why it’s ironic. I also found it ironic that the Elizabeth was so stressed about breaking water balloons. After all, she successfully tosses a pair of water balloons in her bra every morning and those haven’t broken yet.

Annnnyyyyhoooo . . .

Eventually, Peyton F’s it up for Jesse and he’s gracious enough to take the blame and comfort her. Kiptyn F’s it up for Tenley and she sings “A Whole New World” while dancing playfully around him in an attempt to cheer him up. In two more classic moments, Elizabeth espouses her confidence in Kovacs saying, “Kovacs won’t drop anything I throw at him.” That proves to be true later in the evening. When Elizabeth lets a water balloon slip between her legs, I nodded my head in disbelief. Normally, when something encased in rubber is hurled toward Elizabeth’s waist, it makes a safe landing . . . over and over and over again. The bottom line is that Angry Dave (jackass) and Natalie won the toss and the date. I’m certain that a balloon is not the first thing Natalie caught in that mansion. Angry Dave characterizes their victory as “epic.” Jackass. No, Dave, the Iliad was epic. You’re tramp of a girlfriend simply caught a balloon. Jackass.

Peyton melts down over the loss realizing it probably means curtains and Jesse does a classy, considerate, and compassionate job of comforting her proving that sometimes having a friend—regardless if that friend picks his ingrown hairs with drywall screws—is better than having some horny a-hole chomping at the bit to get you in bed. Nice job, Jesse. Contest determined, strategy begins and things start to heat up.

The date card comes inviting them to “Spend the Night Under the Stars” and Angry Dave and his sideways ball cap go to the community bathroom to iron his sideways shirt. Jackass. Tenley thinks they are going on a rocket ship. Good lord. Natalie dresses like Minnie Mouse sans the ears and they prepare for their date. In the meantime, Kovacs and Elizabeth sneak off only to find the Lamborghini meant for the date parked in the driveway. They proceed to wax it with Elizabeth’s whatnot as she rolls around on the hood like Tawny Kitaen in a Whitesnake video. He can’t help it if she’s got “a bad case of Kovacs” and the booze begins to take over. “Why does she do that to herself?” I asked. “Why?”

Memo to Elizabeth: You can’t put a giant sign on the storefront that says “Fire Sale,” open the doors, and not expect someone to show up looking to take free merchandise and, once he does, to return every day until you’re out. There are a lot of nice guys out there but there are a lot more that aren’t so nice. Keep your legs closed and maybe he’ll respect you enough to knock on the door with some flowers one day. God bless her parents if they watch the show. Hell, God bless them even if they don’t. Oh, and either dye your roots or go back to your natural color.

With the car freshly “Armor Alled” Angry Dave and Natalie head out for a drive. Big surprise, Dave likes sports cars. Jackass. Incidentally, does anyone know what the difference is between a Lamborghini and a porcupine? With a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside. I love that joke.

In a pathetic display of macho phallic symbolism, Angry Dave and Natalie drive the stick shift through dark deep tunnels. Subtle. They arrive at some predetermined location to enjoy the smog over the cesspool that is Downtown L.A. and we get a better look at Natalie’s Minnie Mouse outfit as she poses provocatively for a testosterone soaked Angry Dave (jackass) and his camera. If she bent over any more I could have seen what she had for lunch. Did anyone else notice her man hands?

They make out and eventually arrive at “the mansion where Molly and Jason fell in love.” Frankly, I was surprised. I was not surprised that the show reused a prior location; I was surprised that Melissa Rycroft hadn’t previously burned it to the ground. They eat and pretend they have the money in the bag. Natalie, attempting to rebuild her shattered reputation, says that she would send her parents on a trip around the world if she won. That’s probably good considering the fact that they should be out of the country when the show airs. Second, she ignores the fact that student loans are perhaps the lowest interest line of credit that anyone can obtain, and rather than investing the remaining money or paying down higher interest debt, she’ll pay off her student loans. She obviously didn’t major in Finance.

Angry Dave just wants to start his own business in Tampa. Jackass. To be fair, I doubt the Tampa market is saturated with A*shole Charm Schools, so he might be on to something. After a few drinks Dave explains why he’s a jackass and tears up as he tells his version of the Daddy didn’t love me story and confesses to having an anger management problem to an oblivious Natalie. Look, I actually felt sorry for the guy. Divorce at 9 years old with a domineering and then suddenly absent father was probably traumatic. BUT, 28 years old is old enough to figure some of that out and start acting like an adult instead of an angry teenager (Insert one time only Jackass pass here). They “amazing” each other, Dave “Natalie and I’s” us, and they make out in the hot tub. Jackass.

Back at the mansion, Kovacs dons his best “I play shuffleboard in Miami Beach” outfit and sits around the couch until Jesse calls everyone out for their seemingly predetermined vote. Hell, even Tenley looked uncomfortable.

Kiptyn and Tenley smooch in the hot tub as she laments the possibility of leaving the show and returning to her castle on the outskirts of the forest on horseback amid showers of silky flower petals and trumpets heralding her return. Kiptyn tells us that he loves Tenley because she’s positive and fun. Right, and the Mojave Desert is warm and sandy. Natalie tries to sell Angry Dave (jackass) on booting Kovacs and Elizabeth for strategic reasons and he eventually spews a bunch of macho athletic talk before revealing a homoerotic pact with Kovacs. Jackass.

Kovacs and Elizabeth desire some “alone time” together and “sneak” off to the Fantasy Suite. Apparently, they “snuck” in the entire camera crew and alerted whomever lit the candles in there prior to their arrival. Elizabeth is “ready for romance.” Actually, she appeared to be in heat, but who’s counting? Kovacs seals the deal and Elizabeth launches into a tirade of self-loathing and insecurity wondering why she gets “no effort” from Kovacs. Hey Elizabeth, Empty mansion rooms are not like 11th Century Muslims and heretics. They don’t all need to be Christened. The only Crusade Kovacs was on was to get in her pants. She actually ended with “I love you.” We assume Kovacs responded with a forced “you’re special too” before rolling over, farting, and going to sleep to dream about making out with Angry Dave (gay jackass). Again, I took a sip of my beer, nodded my head, and wondered why. Something tells me she did too.


Alright, I rarely include disclaimers of any type on my blog. In my opinion, if I have to disclaim something, that means I shouldn’t be writing it. However, there are exceptions to the rule and this is one of them. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been getting emails and comments on the site about how many of you cannot stand Tenley and think that I’m way too easy on her baby talk, cheery disposition, and incessant giggling. I suppose that’s the cynical portion of the audience, but hey, I’ve never said she didn’t annoy me. With that said, I did promise—in writing no less—to dedicate a portion of this week’s blog to insulting Tenley.

Here’s the disclaimer: Tenley seems like a genuinely nice person and, as such, probably doesn’t deserve what I’m about to do. On the other hand, my readers are genuinely nice people and deserve to be entertained. Here are my top Onely through Tenley insults.

Oneley: She’s so happy that when she farts Febreeze comes out

Twoley: She can giggle in five languages

Threeley: She’s so happy that her vagina whistles happy tunes during her well woman exam

Fourley: She so happy that shooting stars wish upon her

Fiveley: She’s so bubbly that if she farted in the bathtub the water would turn into champagne.

Sixley: She’s so energetic that Richard Simmons has a set of pajamas with her picture on it

Sevenley: She’s so positive Natalie thought she was her pregnancy test

Eightley: She’s so happy she makes Tinkerbell look like a bitch

Nineley: She’s so innocent even the L.A.P.D. wouldn’t beat her

Tenley: Since sleeping with Tenley, when Kiptyn pees sparkles come out

Rose ceremony. With Angry Dave safe and dressed like Billy Joel (what was up with that outfit, Jackass?) and Natalie safe and dressed like Minnie Mouse, we head into the rose ceremony where one couple will be voted off. Individual votes rule the day and it appears after much banter that Natalie will vote against Angry Dave (jackass), electing to save Jesse and Peyton instead of Dave’s boyfriend and Lindsey Lohan. After some references to “woman code” and a stupid handshake between Tenley and Natalie, we are lead to believe that it’s in the bag.

Harrison does his duty with the ubiquitous champagne glass and fork and the votes are counted. Natalie figured out that she didn’t want to be the brunt of Dave’s anger (jackass) and Kiptyn figured out that he’s not good enough friends with Jesse to keep him around. I think both made a mistake. So there it is. With just one episode remaining, Jesse and Peyton go home with their dignity in tact and we are left with Angry Dave (jackass), Natalie, Kiptyn, Tenley, Kovacs, and Elizabeth fighting for the dough. Please submit your off season ideas, questions, and feedback and I’ll decide before next week’s post what I’ll be doing. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be rolling erotically on the hood of a sports car. DP