Bachelor Recap Episode 4: Brad's in a Pickle

Wow. For those of you who have been in a wine-induced coma since last Monday, I’m happy to be the first to tell you about the latest buzz on our second time bachelor. Apparently, he’s a three time “criminal.” Well, sort of.

Various “journalists” reported this week that Brad was booked in the early 90’s for (allegedly) passing a hot check, (alleged) public intoxication, and (allegedly) “forging a government document.”

Alright, let me clear that up. I’m sure there are people across middle-America gasping in their rocking chairs at the fact that Brad is a “criminal.” Let’s be honest. He got drunk in public and tried to pass a hot check. Let those of you who have not sinned cast the first wine flight. Let’s be fair to Brad. I was drunk in public at least 350 days a year when I was that age. Ironically, I used to get that way at a couple of the bars that he now owns. In case you’re wondering, the other 15 days of the year I was drunk at a friend’s house.

Also, I was so broke in college that I literally could not afford to pay a parking meter in order to park near campus. I took the bus. I can’t tell you how many times I put my “Some John Hancock in Austin” on a check that I knew I could dribble down a basketball court. Look, I’m not saying that breaking the law isn’t a serious thing. I’m just pointing out that these (alleged) infractions hardly make Brad an un-marriable, hardened criminal.

Now let’s address the 800 pound gorilla in the room . . . no, I don’t mean Meghan. Of course, I’m referring to the forgery felony. It’s a darn good thing this guy owns his own business because any felony conviction—regardless of when it occurred—will forever haunt a person on every job application, loan request, or any government document he ever fills out. Well, except for an ABC application to be on a national television show.

“Forging a government document” sounds pretty serious, but all it means is that Brad attempted to alter the birth date on his own Driver’s License because he couldn’t find a buddy with a brother over 21 who looked enough like him to loan him his ID before Brad turned 21. Granted, that’s a lot more serious offense in post-9/11 America, but back then it was almost a sport.

In fact “my” name was “Stephen Wall.” I was 21, lived in a suburb of Houston, and I was a Sagittarius. My best friend was “Steven Stericker”—we called him “Steve.” He was a student from Minnesota who lived just off West Campus and was a Capricorn. I also hung out with “Dean Martin,” “Charles ‘Chachi’ Arcola,” and—yes, this is true—“Thomas M. Kruse.” We all thought the last one was particularly clever because the “M.” could either stand for “Mapother” which was Tom Cruise’s real last name or it could stand for “Maverick”—his call sign in Top Gun. You get the picture. We all did it.

Give the guy a break. It’s not like he’s fermenting orange peels, ketchup packets, and sugar cubes in his commode to make prison wine as he sharpens a toothbrush handle in his cell by the light of the moon in hopes that the guard who disrespected him on the yard will turn his back momentarily so Brad can stick him in the carotid artery before being beaten and subdued by the other guards and thrown into solitary where he’ll be forced to eat cold porridge and wallow in his own urine and feces until the warden decides to throw him back into GenPop where his prison “wife” will have been taken by some guy named after a city in Nevada.

Let’s address the bigger crime: Brad’s birth name. Steven Bradley Pickelsimer. Wow. How do you think the 25 ladies would have reacted in the pre-Bachelor casting interview if asked, “How’d you like to be the new Mrs. Steven Bradley Pickelsimer?” It doesn’t quite have the same appeal as “Womack” does it?

Also, I’m not really sure of the correct way to pronounce it. I don’t know if the second “i” is pronounced as in “symer” or “simmer.” For purposes of the blog, I’m going to go with the latter, as in “When I look at Emily it makes my pickle simmer.”

I immediately pictured Harrison on his veranda with his forlorn face illuminated by the soft light of the moon at the moment when he discovered Womack’s birth name.

Oh, Bradley, Bradley. Wherefore art thou Pickelsimer?
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Pickelsimer.
What's a Pickelsimer? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor inordinately large back tattoo, nor any other part
Belonging to a man?

O, be some other name!
What's in a name? That which we call a douche
By any other name would still smell as sweet as Axe Body Spray;
So Womack would, were he not be Womack called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Pickelsimer, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.

I just turned Chris Harrison into Juliet Capulet. Shakespeare and Zeffirelli probably just rolled over in their respective graves. Apparently, he’s gay too. Solid.

Annnyyyyhoooo. . .

The question becomes—as Harrison so eloquently put it in his soliloquy—“What’s in a name?” Apparently, a lot.

Triva. Adolf Hitler was almost not a Hitler. His father, Alois, was in his 50’s when Hitler was born, but had only recently changed his last name to Hitler. He was actually born illegitimately and named Alois Schicklgruber, his mother’s (Hitler’s grandmother) name. She married Johann Georg Hiedler years later. “Hiedler” eventually became “Hitler” and it’s the name that ole Adolf adopted. Crazy, right?

Genealogy lesson aside, I don’t think “Heil Schickelgruber” would have gone very far and I doubt legions of blond haired and blue eyed teens would have rushed out to join the Schickelgruber Youth Movement. I’m just sayin’.

Now I’m not suggesting that Womack is akin to Hitler. The point I’m trying to make—I suppose—is that the biggest favor his dead beat old man ever did him was leaving with that name. It’s almost like a reverse “A Boy Named Sue” by Johnny Cash scenario. Incidentally, I did a little research into the origin of Pickelsimer. It’s German and, oddly enough, it means “Pavelka.” Alright, my point is made. I’ll stop beating the dead German now. Like you, I’m glad he’s a Womack.

On another note, I believe that Some Guy’s boat has finally arrived. This week I was actually invited to be the “celebrity” appearing at the grand opening of the new Carl’s Jr. hamburger joint just off of Bee Caves Road here in Austin. I promise you I’m not making that up. I’m still mulling that one over, but don’t wait on me. Go and grab a free burger and fries on Tuesday and Wednesday from 11-3. If I show up, I’ll be the one standing next to the guy in the giant star mascot costume with a bored look on my face and a Sharpie in my left hand. Please ask me for an autograph.

All kidding aside, thanks to the PR person who researched Austin blogs long enough to find me. I wonder how far down on the list I ranked. “Let’s see, Lance Armstrong, Brad Womack, Matthew McConaughey, Sandra Bullock, Jesse James, every player on the UT football team (including the kicker)—fast forward to the end of the list—Wes Hayden, aaaaannnd Some Guy in Austin.” Regardless, it’s great to feel wanted. Thanks, Carl’s Jr. I’ll swing by and enjoy a tasty burger.

I have to caution the readers that I’m feeling way under the weather this week. It’s cedar season here in Austin and I’ve been fighting horrible allergies for a couple of weeks now. No fear, though. Knowing that I had to write tonight, I did what I always do when I get sick: I drove straight to the “pharmacy” and bought a bottle of whiskey. Incidentally, the “Stupid Things Some Guy has Done after Drinking Whiskey” list would make a great off season (or two) series. That’s why I stick to Lone Star now. With that said, let’s get to it.

We begin this week's episode, of course, with a montage of what lies ahead in the next two hours. We learn that Ashley H. and her Fivehead along with Michelle (big surprise) are beginning to take a dive off Mount Looney under the crushing weight of all of the emotional pressure of the past week. The sun rises, the flowers bloom, and for some reason Michelle wakes up with a black eye. There is bound to be an explanation behind that yet for some reason the producers saw fit to keep it from us.

Harrison arrives looking all business in his gray cardigan, plaid shirt, and fancy jeans. I was yet again surprised to see him dialing it in for another episode. Perhaps the blow in his trailer isn’t as potent this year or the intern with the medical marijuana card got fired. Regardless, he looked bored and unfulfilled. Poor guy. Getting overpaid to do nothing can be lonely, I suppose.

Ever the consummate professional, Harrison lets us know that there are three dates this week. Two one-on-one dates and one group date will take place. Fulfilling his obligation, Harrison drops the date card and Lindsay rushes to read it knowing that it's the closest thing she's ever going to get to a date with Brad.

“How deep is your love,” it reads and we learn that Chantal O. gets the coveted first date. She celebrated in her gray hoodie and gray warm-ups. Michelle offers a fake clap letting us know that she's frustrated as Chantal retires to the community bedroom to pack her giant, red, plastic suitcase. Choosing a fitted, faded blue T-shirt and black jeans I have to admit Chantel looked pretty even though she's not my type. She’s going to win.

After a good wax and the proper application of a gallon of Axe Body Spray, Womack shows up dressed like Jason Statham in every movie he's ever been in, wearing black jeans, a black leather coat, and a gray, macho shirt. Meghan gets some screen time (ick) and Ashley S. lets us know in her sweet, Southern accent that she’d like to rip Michelle’s crazy head off of her crazy body. Ever the conversation maker, Brad sits there like a mannequin as the girls awkwardly eye him before the peanut butter thick uncomfortableness is broken by the sound of the red and yellow Baywatch helicopter arriving to pick up Brad and Chantal.

For some reason, the girls all pretend like they’ve never seen a helicopter on this damn show as Michelle stews in a huge pot of jealousy like Bugs Bunny after Elmer Fudd captures him. Frankly, there was nothing “amazing” or remarkable about the entire scenario. We’ve seen it every season since Ryan fell in love with Trista and they ended up getting married. Yes, I know they’re still married. Come on, ABC. Mix it up a little.

For what will become the first of 1000 times, Brad drops a “thank you” on Chantal as she begins to spill her guts about marrying her high school sweetheart before he divorced her undoubtedly because she outgrew her cheerleader uniform.

Time out. The following is my impression of Brad Womack at a gas station. Ahem . . .

Brad: Well hello, Gas Station Guy. Excuse me. Do you mind if I ask you a question? Do you have any Axe Body Spray behind the counter? I need it. I really do. Please, go ahead.

Gas Guy: Why yes, we certainly do. Would you like me to ring it up for you?

Brad: Absolutley. My pleasure. It’s an honor to have you ring up my Axe Body Spray. No doubt about it. Please do. I’m truly ready to open up my shirt and apply the Axe Body Spray liberally over my shaved chest. I really am and I think it’s important that you know that. I really do. Please. Thank you. Please allow me to say thank you to you. I really need to. I mean that. I really do. Truly.

Gas Guy: Uh, ok. Here you go.

Brad: Absolutely. Please thank yourself for opening up the register so that I could get my change. I really appreciate it. I really do. Truly. If you don’t mind, can I please say thank you to you again? I think it’s really important that you know that I am pleased with you and I need to thank you because of that. I really do. Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me.

Gas Guy: Can I kiss you?

Brad: Well, come here to me. I really want you to. Truly. Please. Thank you.

-EL FIN-

In perhaps the most inexplicable editing faux paux since Jake’s giant orange watch changed arms three times, we get a shot of Brad and Chantal in what is now a blue and gray helicopter. What the hell happened to the Baywatch helicopter? Did Hasselhoff dial it in for an emergency? Nice f*cking editing. Even I was sober enough to notice. I truly was. Really. I think it’s important that you know that. I do. Please. Thank you.

After apparently changing helicopters somewhere above the ocean, Brad and Chantal arrive at Catalina Island. She looked relaxed and pretty. Why doesn’t that ever last on this show? Brad mispronounces Chantal’s name and lets us know that this date “will make us feel like we’re completely out of the real world.” As if living for free in a giant wo-mansion with unlimited access to alcohol in a community bedroom with 14 other women making out with the same man is part of the “real world.” Inane.

They board some boat despite the impending thunderstorm above and pretend that it’s a good day for a “dive.” Brad lets Chantal know that they are going to hit the ocean flora for some fauna-cation. Thank you. I’ll be here all week.

Annnnyyyyhooo . . .

Chantal convincingly pretends to be scared and tells us that she “just doesn’t get into the ocean.” Perhaps not, but I’d be willing to bet that she’ll beat a hungry cheetah to the bed in the Fantasy Suite in about three weeks. We’ll see. She should have been more terrified of the possibility of a lightening strike. Oblivious, they don stupid diving helmets connected to 12 feet of hoses and “descend” about 8 feet to the ocean floor where they pretend that they can see more than a foot in front of their faces. To be fair, I suppose it was safe to assume that the California weather would cooperate when “Brad” planned the date.

Note to women: Chantal was clearly uneasy with the task. She took a risk in spite of that and had a good time. She didn’t whine and throw a fit like we’d witness Michelle doing later. Men appreciate a woman who can do that sort of thing. Brad was able to feel useful and manly without having to wipe the snot from her nose, listen to her irrationally whine, and calm her down like a four year old with a skinned knee on the playground. Nice job, Chantal. Keep the wheels on the bus and you’re headed for the home stretch.

Chantal reads the cue cards and drops a metaphor for love reference to the “dive” saying that she can hear the sound of “Chantal Womack” echoing through the arches of an Austin church. Perhaps. How about Chantal Pickelsimer? I doubt it. I really do. Truly. But thank you for the opportunity to make that joke. I’m thankful. I truly am.

Meanwhile, back at the wo-mansion we get a shot of Michelle’s black eye. At first, I thought she was wearing a hoodie with butterflies on the front of it, but then I realized that those were more than likely the Death’s Head Moth that was found under the soft palate of Buffalo Bill Gum’s victims and also flying around his torture chamber in Silence of the Lambs. “It takes the meat tenderizer from the basket and puts it on her black eye or it gets the hose again.” Michelle should have been in that movie.

The doorbell rings and Michelle tenses up like the new guy’s sphincter in a prison shower. “Let’s put our love on the line,” the card reads and we learn that Ashley S., Stacey, Lindsay, Jackie, The Fivehead, Britt, Meghan, Alli, and Shawntel N. get the second date. Michelle bitches some more about it. I thought about giving her a fat lip to match her black eye (Insert sip of my hot tea and whiskey drink and a sigh).

Back on the date, Brad meets Chantal at Descanso, which is—say it with me—a rooftop restaurant. Amidst the soft lighting and Lawrence of Arabia tents they talk about trust. Of course, Brad “thanks” her (he truly does) and she admits after he asks her if she sees herself getting married again that she “totally” wants to get married again. He should have asked her if she sees herself getting divorced again. Better question, Brad, you dunce. The chit chat was uneventful and other than dropping 7 “amazings” in a three minute span, Chantal seemed together, level-headed, and un-whorish.

Back at the wo-mansion, we get a shot of Michelle and Ashley S.—who apparently drew the short straw between the rest of the ladies—talking about Michelle’s lack of sleep and frustration. You could literally see her beginning to melt like Frosty the Snowman when he gets stuck in the greenhouse. Frankly, her whining and obsessive behavior began to drive me into my own crazy fit early in the show. I was bored with her, but we all knew she’d be hanging around the house like a drunk uncle on Thanksgiving Day.

Chantal finally apologizes for her fake slap out of the limo and the stage is set for her advance. She got a Safety Rose. She truly did. Thank you. I mean that. I really do.

Alli and her fence picket teeth introduce the group date as the girls don their 30 foot silk scarves and hit the Hummer limo for a few mimosas before meeting Brad at some radio station for and episode of Loveline with Dr. Drew as Emily basks in her hotness making an appearance while talking to Michelle and her puffy, tear ridden face. To be fair, Michelle probably felt really unhot next to Emily; although I’ve said before that Michelle is a close second to Emily in the looks department. Granted, she’s also about as stable as nitro glycerin, but she’s hot.

The interview with Dr. Drew was uneventful save the fact that Stacey signed her release papers by admitting to cheating on a boyfriend when she was “drunk and stupid.” Realizing that she’s still drunk and stupid, Brad made a mental note to kick her Boston ass to the curb even though he pretended that her honesty was refreshing.

Brad reiterates that he wants to just “be himself” around his mate—doesn’t’ everyone? Ashley H.’s blood sugar falls to a dangerously low level (somewhere between sane and incapacitated to be exact) and her fuse, while slow, is clearly lit. You could see the steam come off of her gas tanks and anticipate the imminent glare of her engines. The countdown to crazy had begun.

Brad changes from his gray hoodie to his green hoodie and the chicks break out the bikinis. It’s rooftop pool time. For some reason, Lindsay kept her red scarf on while in the hot tub in her bikini. That’s the equivalent of a small child insisting on wearing the cape from his Halloween costume to the grocery store on November 1st. Odd. Brad opens with some typical canned garbage about opening up and says that he “can’t thank them enough” for being there. I think we all took a sip of our beverage and agreed that he’d thanked them enough.

Ashley H. begins to pound down the cabernet as the other girls take shots off of her giant forehead like those ice blocks you see in trendy bars and at shi shi weddings. For the record, I just made myself laugh out loud at the thought of the girls taking shots off of Ashley H.’s giant, unhealthy thought-clogged forehead.

Brad has some obligatory one-on-one time with Stacey, and Alli before Ashely H. stumbles down the rocky path of love (another metaphor perhaps?) in a cabernet-induced haze and ousts Alli and both of her huge cans in an attempt to undermine the three weeks of progress she’d made with Brad. Oh, and Michelle bitches some more back at the wo-mansion.

Ding Dong.

Emily floats from the confessional sectional by gently fluttering her wings and retrieves the date card that we all know belongs to Michelle. Basking in the soft light of her halo, Emily utters a musical “y’all ready?” as she opens the card. Simmer my pickle, she’s hot.

“Let’s hang out together,” it reads as Michelle celebrates like a Packer after a touchdown catch. Chantal—undoubtedly at the urging of the entire cast and crew— goes Ali-Frazier on Michelle as she gets inside Michelle’s head by pointing out that hers is the only date card without the word “love” in it. That was a brilliant move and Michelle took the bait like a catfish on a ball of Wonder Bread soaked in Big Red. I know, it’s a bit obscure, but try it. It works. Like Michelle, a catfish will put anything in its mouth.

With the Safety Rose lingering in the background like Harrison on the edge of a rose ceremony, the women all begin to feel the affects of binging on alcohol and starving themselves for the bikini scenes. You’d think the Producers would at least have the common courtesy to drop off a bowl of jelly beans. No such luck.

Jackie—who looked better last week--Hairdo?—lets us know that a drunken Ashley H. is a handful. I found that refreshing considering the fact that her breasts aren’t. Alright, that was a bit mean. Funny, but mean. Like a slutty, drunken Napoleon she returns yet a second time to the edge of the make out area in order to reconquer Brad. “Dude, you’re ruining it!” I yelled as I shook my head in disbelief. Brad does his best to reassure her basically telling her that she’s safe but her Blood Alcohol Content prevented her from understanding it. How annoying.

Brad drops a “hang in there” in an attempt to shut her up. To be fair to Ashley H. she strikes me as a student of the game and undoubtedly recognized that phrase to be the exact line Ali dropped on Chris L. before professing her love for Roberto and hightailing it out of his bungalow to go give Roberto a chance at some hightail. Ashley H., you had a good date. Brad likes you. Keep your foot on the base and wait for the ball to leave the bat before you run. Oh, and stop belting wine like a hobo at a bus station.

In an effort to further reassure her drunk ass, Brad tips his hand that he intends to give Ashley H. the rose. She takes her foot off the base before the ball has left the bat and gets tagged out at second. Brad, with his pickelsimer in a knot, opts to give the Safety Rose to Britt for her fabulous French kissing ability and her adorable heart shaped earrings. Too much wine, ruins it every time. Getting molared on a group date is an amateur move. Everyone knows that you don’t break out your naughty drunk self until the fantasy date.

Cut back to the kitchen the next morning and it is “Michelle’s Day.” She paints her nails Crazy Crimson or Desperate Red as the other girls bathe in last night’s Ashley H. drama. They all looked tired, hung over, and goaded into the conversation. The Bachelor formerly known as Pickelsimer arrives in his macho leather jacket and a blue hoodie and immediately takes Fivehead aside to—yet again—reassure her. Michelle was pissed. Frankly, she had a point.

As Michelle bitches, Chantal calls her out for her meltdown at the photo shoot and Michelle drops some nonsense about a “moral choice” as the other girls watch as steaming estrogen emanates from Michelle’s pores. Brad re-enters to the long faces of the bunch and Michelle yanks his arm out of the socket. Frankly, if I would have been in Brad’s shoes, I would have shut it down right there. It’s only a matter of time before the tip of the crazy sword is pointed squarely at his throat. Like accidentally walking into a gay bar on turn the straight guy night, it’s better to get out early than to linger around and see what happens.

Brad brings Michelle to “his” house and she bitches some more as the Baywatch helicopter makes another appearance. They arrive on the top of some building in Downtown L.A. and we clearly realize that Michelle included her fear of heights on her Bachelor application. Did that strike anyone as mean? First, they put poor Emily—who’s hot by the way—into a private jet and then they put Michelle at the top of a skyscraper and tell her she’s going over the side. Ratings are ratings and Michelle is a giant pain in the ass, but geez. I won’t even go into next week’s race car date.

Predictably, Michelle loses it over the possibility of “repelling” down the building. For the record, you “rappel” down the side of a building. “Repel” means to drive away or move back. “Rappel” refers the act of descending down an incline with the assistance of a rope. I won’t bore us with the details, but Michelle eventually made it down the building with Brad and they hugged a lot before jumping in the pool and arguing over who had less chest hair.

Michelle characterizes the rappel as the “most amazing experience of her life.” It’s a darn good thing that the power has probably been turned off in her house in Salt Lake City since Michelle split town and left her young daughter to fend for herself. How do you think she would feel about that line?

Brielle: “Mommy, what was better for you, rappelling down the side of a skyscraper for a reality show with some dude you barely know or basking in the wonderful glow of gestation as you nurtured and grew me deep in the feminine confines of your womb until enduring the agony of childbirth so you could hold your image in your arms and dream wonderful dreams about who I might become?”

Michelle: “Well, frankly, Brielle, I drank and smoked in an attempt to deny the majority of my pregnancy before accepting reality and having you. So, I’m going to have to go with the rappelling thing.”

Let’s hope that kid never sees the tape. I’ll give credit where credit is due, though. She made it down the building and got a big piece of Womack when she got to the bottom. Nice job, Michelle.

They have dinner and Michelle admits to introducing her daughter to all of her one night stands. She’s a mess. Chantal and Stacey agree that she’s crazy and that she’ll destruct on her own. Michelle eventually settles into her happy blood alcohol range and lays her charms on Womack. She’s an attractive woman and she’s confident enough to let Brad know what she wants. I’ll give her credit. She laid it on thick in the pool and Brad drank the punch. She got a rose. I say she sticks around for another two weeks.

I’ll drop another one of my fancy terms on you this week. When I was in college, we used to refer to a girl like Michelle as a “Suitcase Bi*ch.” That’s actually worse than Third Date Crazy. A “Suitcase Bi*ch” is a girl that you hook up with one night in a stupor of poor judgment and she shows up at your doorstep with her suitcase the next afternoon. You’re welcome. Feel free to use that little gem. We all know one or two of those girls. Hell, some of you are even related to one.

Brad has a mid-afternoon meeting with Dr. Jamie. Dr. Jamie looks at him like a pedophile on a playground before telling Brad to “take a risk.” Translation: “Dude, you’ve got a bunch of hot broads throwing themselves at you. Bang them all and then decide who you like.” Very bohemian advice, Dr. Jamie. Solid.

Finally, we get to the rose ceremony. I’ll gloss over all of it except to say that I pray that the Producers let these girls get some much needed sleep next week. Everyone looked tired, hungry, and emotionally drained. Well, every one but Emily. Brad took her out for a picnic in the driveway in her very short skirt as he fumbled around like a schoolboy for the right words to say. Hell, I’m still trying to recompose myself after her “you are soooo sweeeet to do that for meeee.” Poor girl is going to take a beating next week at the race track, but I loved the way she lit up when Brad asked about her daughter. I wanted to be her daughter.

In the meantime, the ever-sane and stable Chantal demonstrates just how bad the pressure is mounting in the house as she momentarily cracks and wipes away tears of anxiety with her men’s Rolex. She laments the fact that Brad has “special things” with other ladies as Brad sits with Emily and keeps an eye on her special things. Incidentally, would it kill ABC to get a tissue sponsor for this show? These poor women were walking around trying to keep mascara and mucous off their borrowed evening wear all night. They could at least let them used those 30 foot scarves for a nose blow or two.

Brad eventually does a good job of calming Chantal down and the only question remaining in the rose ceremony is if Ashley H. got drunk enough to kick herself out of the running. Harrison arrives with the ubiquitous champagne glass and knife and the stems get handed out.

Of course, Chantal, Michelle, and Britt cling tightly to their Safety Roses as the other women sweat like fat kids on the playground.

4. Ashley S. (she looked tired, but kept it together this week.)
5. Alli (I’m still confused by this one)
6. Emily (damn right)
7. Shawntel N. (she hung in there and grabbed some alone time)
8. Lisa (this is still a mystery to me—and probably to all of you)
9. Jackie (she’s cool but had a bad hair week)
10. Marissa (again, confusing)
11. Ashley H. (squeaked by but she now has a target on her giant fivehead)

Booted: Lindsay—she lost respectfully and added that her daddy would be proud. Translation: I didn’t make a drunken slut out of myself. Good for her. She was pretty. Mute, but pretty. She’ll find some guy in a steakhouse in Dallas to make her happy.

Stacey—Uneventful. We all saw that coming. She’ll go back to a cold Boston winter and drink herself into her next destructive relationship.

Meghan—What was up with her walk out of the house? She tried, but never had a chance.

Well, there we are. With the Amazing count at an unprecedented 50 and the Journey count at a meager 8, we head into Episode 5. Thank you, as always, for reading and commenting. I appreciate it. Truly. I really do. I mean that. Absolutely. Until next week, if you need me I’ll be at Carl’s Jr. simmering my pickle. DP