Bachelorette Recap Episode 2: Check Out My Midriff

Hello, Readers, and welcome back. I appreciate all of your comments last week and I owe everyone an explanation for my absence on the comment board. Apparently, Blogspot is having some trouble with its site. I am literally unable to leave a comment on my own blog when I log on to my computer. I understand the problem is systemic and it’s being worked on as you read this. Keep the comments rolling and thanks for pimping me out.

I hope you all enjoyed your Memorial Day weekend. Like passionate kisses, sunset walks on the beach, and Ashley’s bangs, weekends are better when they’re longer. They’re also better when you’re drunk. Personally, I had the pleasure of attending a wedding this weekend. The ceremony was lovely, the flowers were stunning, the bride was enchanting, there was magic in the air, and—most importantly—there was an open bar. Unfortunately, I was on my best behavior, but I did have a wonderful time.

Before I begin, I’d also like to thank the fine folks over at Carl’s Jr. who sent me an unsolicited, complimentary, life size cardboard cut out of Miss Turkey holding their new turkey sandwich. The only thing more priceless than seeing a cardboard woman in a polka dotted bikini holding a sandwich in her hand was the look on my assistant’s face when she opened the package. Needless to say, I had some explaining to do. With that out of the way, let’s get to it.

We begin with the standard lead in and (ho hum) it’s apparent from the stock footage and the less than enthusiastic tone in Harrison’s voice that we’re headed back to Vegas this week. As I watched the recycled footage of fast cars, fast slot machines, and fast women on The Strip and listened to the Rat Pack-esque music, I couldn’t help but feel as if ABC was content to simply phone it in this season. Granted, I’m sure Mandalay, Monte Carlo, and The Bellagio shelled out some easy dollars for the publicity, but this is ABC for crying out loud. Between the stock footage and the stock casting decisions, this show is about as original and spontaneous Lorenzo Lamas’ career.

Incidentally, Lorenzo Lamas’ first movie was Grease, which also starred Jeff Conway as Kenickie. He passed away last week after a very public—and very painful to watch—fight with addiction. I question the wisdom of shows like Celebrity Rehab and feel sorry for his family. For anyone out there who has been involved with an addict of any kind, his death hits a different note. Grease was (and still is) one of my favorite movies growing up. Rest in peace, Jeff, and remember, “a hickey from Kenickie is like a Hallmark card: when you care enough to send the very best.” Back to the show.

After some shots of William in a sweater, Jeff in his mask, and Bentley (the suitor, not the car) talking about Ashely’s ass, we see Harrison in his weekly morning appearance at the MAN-sion. Still wearing last night’s blue oxford with the cuffs unbuttoned, Harrison reminds us of the rules we all know anyway and drops the first date card of the season before heading out to play 18 holes with someone more important then the remaining 18 schlubs vying for a shot in the Fantasy Suite.

“Wanna Make a Splash in Vegas? I do,” the card reads as William learns he’s in the lead off position. Still looking like Jason Schwartzman, Stephen the Hairdresser in addition to Ryan P. the Solar Guy in his trendy, grey, Dri-Fit workout shirt hide their frustration by giving William a hard time. William’s reaction, although subtle, reminded me of the Douchebag from Denton. As we’d see later in the show, William is not exactly a guy’s guy and, based on the previews from last week, he might not be Ashley’s guy either, but we’ll have to wait and see. In the moment, he was envied and excited.

We cut next to Ashley in her cliff side villa contemplating the ups and downs of searching for love feet away from a fat, sweaty guy with a camera and a fatter, sweatier guy with a boom mike. Of course, she’s lounging in teal work out gear. Teal is clearly the canary yellow of this season. Again, Ashley does less for me from the neck up than she does for Bentley (the suitor, not the car), but she looks great from the neck down.

Ashley takes her giant straightening iron to her prodigious bangs in order cover up her prodigious forehead and dons a size zero white mini dress that could have doubled for a doily. Frankly, I didn’t know whether to compliment her on her dress or put a glass of tea on it. If she bent over in that thing you could see what she had for breakfast. She finishes her ensemble with a leather jacket a la Stephanie Zinone in Grease 2 before getting in “her” Maserati and heading over to the MAN-sion to pick up William and his sweater. I wondered why ABC opted for a Maserati instead of a Bentley (the car, not the suitor).

Matt (the suitor, not the thing you wipe your feet on) and his weird eyebrows whine about not getting the date and William emerges in jeans, a royal blue oxford, and a pull over sweater looking more like he is headed to a Student Council meeting then trying to romance a woman. The guy dresses like Joel Goodson from Risky Business. I didn’t notice, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to see some Sperry Topsiders on his feet.

As they drive away we notice that “her” Maserati has no plates and wonder if she boosted it from Charlie Sheen’s apparently easily accessible driveway. William looked about as comfortable as a bastard on Father’s Day as they made small (very small) talk on the way to the private jet hangar. They board the private jet and William continues to look like a pu*sy with his seatbelt neatly across his lap and chest like a five year old in a car seat. All I could do was sip my Lone Star and shake my head in protest.

We cut back to the MAN-sion where Jeff with his mask and knitted cap in the 90 degree Los Angeles sun attempts to explain and justify his woefully underwhelming “stealth approach” strategy to a politely, yet sarcastically receptive Ames (the suitor, not the city in Iowa). Ames (the suitor, not the city in Iowa) drops a classic line on Jeff asking him if he regrets not choosing a white mask in light of the heat. Not surprisingly, the personality-less Jeff has no response. Back to Vegas.

Ashley and William arrive in Vegas and are immediately accosted by fans of the show. Ashley looked comfortable in her new role and William still looked like a toddler waiting for his mommy to finish talking to a grown up before he could be put back in his car seat and taken to the park. I would have loved to see the unedited footage of those interactions. I’m sure Womack was bashed and Emily’s name was invoked. Priceless.

Inexplicably, William laments the fact that Ashley parades him around the Bellagio into various shops and wastes the vendors’ time as they pretend to pick out wedding cakes and engagement rings. Dude, you’re on the show to marry her. It appeared to me that she was making that pretty easy. Embrace it.

Ultimately, they end up in a wedding chapel and, as if this show doesn’t make a big enough mockery of the institution of marriage, they proceed to get fake married and pretend like mouthing the words “I do” will amount to a “legally binding” marriage. Whatever. Hell, from William’s perspective, he should have gone through with it considering the money she’s going to rake in from appearance fees, sponsorships, and whatever other non-dentistry related income she realizes from being on the show.

William does get a kiss at the pretend altar from Ashley and her doily dress and they agree that the date is their “best first date ever.” Suck on that, Womack. So much for that fake carnival date last season. That comment should give Brad some motivation when he’s performing dead lifts or squats during hour three of his daily workout prior to gorging on various protein rich foods such as egg whites and tuna fish and supplements, showering, and dousing himself in Axe Body Spray.

William and Ashley cap off the evening by dressing for dinner. Well, William dressed for dinner. Ashley still had on her green silky bottomless bathrobe, although she did take the time to get smoky eyes and put on some rhinestone hoop earrings and some F Me Pumps. They row to the center of Lake Bellagio or whatever it’s called and have dinner amongst the stagnant water as they fight to hear each other over the hecklers on the nearby bridge.

William rallies from his prior childishness and has an adult conversation with Ashley about his alcoholic father, the magic stopping watch, and all that it entails. Ashley, who is an easier mark than a Styrofoam deer with a target on its side at a shooting range, empathizes as we learn (SURPRISE!) that she has—say it with me—Daddy issues. Apparently, her small town is not small enough to be without a liquor store and Daddy is a frequent patron. Too bad Tim was sent packing last week. He and the Old Man would have gotten along famously.

Deal closed, William establishes himself as a front runner after a solid effort on the first date. I’ll give him credit. As the Esteban music plays in the background, William gets a rose and a few kisses before the phallic symbolism of the spraying fountains begins—and almost never ended. The fountains went on forever, but I was thankful that I didn’t have to listen to Chicago, Seal, Badfinger, Little Feat, or any other wash up. Ashley recognizes it’s still early, but vows to remember the date by “locking it up in her Memory Box.” I was glad to hear that but based upon the length of that green dress she could have easily locked it in any number of her boxes.

Back at the MAN-sion, Jeff and his white watch and magic balancing bracelet sit in silence as the Group Date Card arrives. “In Sin City, boys will be boys,” it reads and the attendees are announced.

Constantine (the suitor, not the emperor), Ryan M., Chris, Ben F., Nick (the suitor, not the shaving injury), West (the suitor, not the direction), Lucas, Stephen the Hairdresser, Blake the real dentist, Matt (the suitor, not the thing you wipe your feet on), Ames (the suitor, not the city in Iowa), and Bentley (the suitor, not the car) all get to jump on board the private plane after documenting an otherwise uneventful trip to the airport with their complimentary Flipcams.

J.P., the other Ryan, Mickey (the suitor, not the mouse), Frenchie Ben C., and Jeff draw the short straws and are forced to stay in the confines of the giant, luxurious mansion with no responsibilities and unlimited alcohol. Oddly, they all seem upset about it. Go figure.

The guys arrive in Vegas as Ashley appears on the steps of the Monte Carlo in her red plaid picnic tablecloth shirt tied in front to expose her midriff, what appeared to be pedal pushers but what might have been those new Pajama Jeans, and another pair of F Me Pumps. She looked like Annette Funicello in Beach Blanket Bingo, except Annette had bigger jugs. “Nobody’s jugs are bigger than Annette’s.” (Another Kenickie quote).

West (the suitor, not the direction) announces that he’s nervous for some reason and Nick (the suitor, not the shaving injury) greets Ashley with a spin hug before they go to some theater and see what is apparently “America’s favorite dance crew,” the Jabberwockeez. Uh, ok. Look, I’m not up on my dance crews, but I suppose if I were to pick a favorite, these guys would be up there. I strongly considered the Spice Girls but soon realized that they’re English, not American. Annnyyyyhooo . . .

Constantine (the suitor, not the Roman emperor) pretends to share Ashley’s love of dance before Ashley sneaks backstage and trades in her Beach Blanket Bingo attire in favor of a sports bra and baggy cargo pants in order to don a white mask (where’s Jeff when you need him?) and dance with the Jabberwockeez. I thought this b*tch was a dentist. At any rate, the Asian king of the Jabberwockeez announces that the men will be split into two dance crews and asked to choreograph a short dance. The winners will stay in Vegas while the losers will head West (the direction, not the suitor) back to L.A.

I’ll cut to the end of the chase on this one for two reasons. First, it was extremely painful to watch and second it was extremely painful to watch. “No Rhythm Nation” beat out a poorly equipped “Best Men.” Ashley had clearly been rehearsing for some time as she and her midriff showed of her dance moves and her midriff by showing off her midriff and shaking her dance moves. I thought this b*tch was a dentist.

The big winners are treated to a pool party back at the hotel as Blake the real dentist continues to prove that he should be fiddling around in a person’s mouth while wearing a surgical mask rather then trying to form words out of his own. As he stated his strong love of “order and precision” I couldn’t help but wonder what in the hell got him past the first cocktail party. I suppose—like I said last week—the shared professional interests will get him a couple of roses, but dude, this guy needs to get a personality. Like plaque on a tooth, he’ll cling around for awhile before being scraped off. Incidentally, there are many examples of people who love “order and precision.” Let’s see, there’s Hitler, Napoleon, and the guy from Sleeping with the Enemy, for instance. Pay attention to that red flag, Ashley. You’ll be matching soup labels and using those free toothbrushes you get for scrubbing the grout between the tiles on your bathroom floor if you marry Blake.

West (the suitor, not the direction) c*ck blocks the dentist and spirits Ashley off to an empty theater before dropping his widower story on her. Again, like a Styrofoam deer, Ashley gets caught up in the emotion of the moment as West (the suitor, not the direction) guarantees himself a rose. Frankly, although she looked genuinely concerned, I didn’t see any body language that would indicate any chemistry between the two. That’s a bummer of a story, but still, if the attraction is there it should have been apparent.

Back at the MAN-sion, William does his version of Summer Nights by recounting to the group the details of his date with Ashley as a less-than-enthusiastic Bentley (the suitor, not the car) gets some alone time back at the hotel with Ashley. He appeared to lose ground when Ashley called him out on being insecure; however, he recovered nicely by bringing up Cozy (the daughter, not the adjective) and then leading into a few compliments. Not only did it work, by the end of it he had Ashley literally begging him to stay. To top it off, he got the Safety Rose. Nice work. She’s an incredible dunce.

Ding dong (the doorbell sound, not the insult). The Final Date Card arrives along with a Mickey (the suitor, not the mouse)/J.P. sided coin. “Love is a Gamble,” it reads and after a toss of the coin, Mickey (the suitor, not the mouse) packs his bags and heads to Vegas. I’m certain he hasn’t been that excited since he won the Dylan McDermott look-alike contest last year. Ashley greets him in a white coat and jeans with a sparkly tank top underneath. She looked nice.

They got to someplace named Areola or Aureola or something. I suppose that’s not exactly a small distinction. At any rate, Mickey (the suitor, not the mouse) proceeds to bore Ashely (and me) into a coma as they force conversation by flipping a coin about everything. Back at the MAN-sion, the guys gang up on Jeff’s mask and he broods by the pool in a white belt.

Mickey (the suitor, not the mouse) cleans up for dinner and Ashley proves exactly how interested she is by showing up in exactly the same outfit as she went to the airport wearing in order to greet him. Despite dropping a dead mother story, the best Mickey can do is a “nice guy” and a coin flip in order to see if he stays or goes. Brutal. Given that choice, I would have told her to stick that coin up her Memory Box before dropping my own credit card at the casino and getting drunker than Tim at first cocktail party.

Mickey (the suitor, not the mouse) “wins” the toss and gets the pleasure of accompanying her to the Mandalay Bay beach. Incidentally, the last time I was in Vegas I sat on that beach from about 9am until 4pm and ran up a $500 bar tab before realizing that I was more cooked than a convenience store hotdog. I had to wear a shirt in the pool for the remainder of the weekend like a fat kid. My friends still give me a hard time for it.

Ashley and Mickey are “treated” to a one song concert by somebody named Colby something or other and, although I never thought it was possible, I secretly longed for Chicago, Jeffrey Osborne, or Badfinger to show up. Hell, I would have settled for the Ojays. The “who in the hell is that?” look on Mickey’s face as he tried to figure out who was singing was priceless.

Back at the MAN-sion each guy prepares for the final cocktail party by selecting either a double or single Windsor knot for his tie. Ames (the suitor, not the city in Iowa) opts for the casino blackjack dealer look with a vest and rolled up oxford sleeves. By the way, he still seems gay to me. I can’t look at him without picturing him flitting around his neatly kept, well-decorated condominium with a glass of pinot grigio in one hand and a feather duster in the other while Adele plays at an acceptable, non-intrusive volume in the background.

J.P. gets some much needed reassurance from Ashley along with a kiss. He seems like a nice enough guy, which is why he didn’t get a date this week. He’ll be safe for a while if he doesn’t get overconfident and make an a-hole out of him self by bragging about his date and doing George W. Bush impressions like William.

Nick (the suitor, not the shaving injury) gives “Ash” (the Bachelorette, not the residue in the fireplace) some line dancing lessons before being mercifully c*ck blocked by William who already has a safety rose. Uncool move, William. If you get to the end zone, act like you’ve been there before. That certainly won’t endear him to the remaining men and my prediction is that once Jeff and his ridiculous mask get sent back to wherever the hell he’s from, William will be this season’s Jake.

Frenchie Ben C. makes the most of his time with Ash (the Bachelorette, not the residue in the fireplace) and does a concise job of selling himself. Jeff reveals a brain hemorrhage and a divorce in the same sentence and the easy to move Ashley appears uneasy and unmoved before Matt (the suitor, not the thing you wipe your feet on) c*ck blocks the mask removal. Bentley (the suitor, not the car) says he’d rather be “swimming in pee” then planning a wedding with Ashley. He’ll have that chance soon enough once the bunch makes it to the pool.

Despite his concerns, Bentley manages some alone kissy-face time and Ash (the Bachelorette, not the residue in the fireplace) toes the ABC line by pretending that Bentley could be “the one” for her. Look, I don’t know if she’s in on it or not, but if she isn’t she’s clearly an idiot.

Harrison mercifully enters and puts the cocktail party out of it’s misery with a ding of the ubiquitous champagne glass and butter knife. The rose ceremony went down as follows:

Sticking Around

1. Bentley

2. William

3. Mickey

4. West

5. Constantine

6. Ryan P.

7. Ben C.

8. Nick

9. Ames

10. Lucas (talk about under the radar)

11. Jeff

12. J.P.

13. Chris

14. Ben F.

15. Blake

Sent packing like a Himalayan Yak

1. Hairdressing Stephen

2. Mama’s Boy Matt (called his mother)

3. Ryan M. (I was very surprised)

Well, there it is. With the Journey count at 6 and the Amazing count at a staggering 35, we head toward Episode 3 in what appears to be an emotional week for Ash (the Bachelorette, not the residue in the fireplace) and the rest of the boys. Enjoy your week. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be putting things in my Memory Box. DP

Bachelorette Recap Episode 1: Tim Freaking Rules

Sorry for the delay, folks. I had a 7am flight today and I got delayed on the way home. This damn “real” job is cramping my style. Here we go.

Hello, Loyal Readers, and welcome back to a fresh new season of our favorite show. It’s been a long off season for me and I’m thrilled to back in my element again. Special thanks go out to all of you who stuck with me during the off season. For those of you who didn’t, well that’s alright too, I suppose. Welcome back.

Before I begin my fancy recap, I’d like to send out a special request to all of you reading this. As I’ve mentioned before, I spend a lot of my creative capital during the season creating this blog into the wee hours of the night. Selfishly, I’d love for as many people to read this as possible. Do me a favor and comment a little more this season. Send the link to friends (or enemies depending on your take on it). In short, please be my pimp this year. My secret goal is to far exceed the average readership I’ve been getting over the past few seasons. Now, in the spirit of pimping people out, let’s get to it.

Actually, before I begin I have to admit that I’ve had a difficult time getting motivated to write about this show for another season. Sure, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to let all of you down, but there’s also a part of me that’s so sick of this show I’ve strongly considered selling all of my worldly possessions in order to fund a one way trip to Montana to start my own country where, after carefully creating my anti-establishment manifesto, I’d sit stoically and vigilantly awaiting the arrival of the Feds. Eventually, I’d be forced into a gun battle after refusing to surrender. The government would undoubtedly run roughshod over my undermanned compound forcing me to surrender and sending my six teenaged wives back into foster care after being deprogrammed by an FBI psychiatrist.

Frankly, I don’t think the sum value of my worldly possessions is enough to buy my own country in Montana. Instead, I’ve simply committed to writing this blog in the nude every week in sort of a passive-aggressive protest to the content of the show to which I’m inextricably linked. Actually, writing in the nude wouldn’t be a problem, except for the fact that I usually write this at the coffee shop down the street. However, writing in the buff will serve as a spark on the dried twigs of my creative shrubbery. Besides, I can type a lot faster now that I no longer need my thumbs to hit the space bar. It will be much easier to count to 21 too. Anyyyyhoooo. . . .

Now, let’s really get to it.

THE SET UP

Under the “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” line of reasoning, we begin this season in an identical fashion to the way we begin every season. We see shots of the pre-makeover Ashley whining over Brad while simultaneously displaying that dinner plate of a forehead she owns. We see a replay of her carnival date as Ashley reminds us of what has become the common theme for repeat contestants: I was broken then but I’ve grown now. Yawn.

Ashley pretends really hard that she was actually fell in love with Brad and we are reminded again about how much she whined and equivocated toward the later part of the season. Then, as if the show was specifically designed to piss me off, Ashley drops a “Brad and I’s relationship” as we see her getting the heave ho in South Africa.

Grammatical snafus aside, Ashley demonstrates her new found confidence by jogging, brooding, and introspectively strolling through the streets of Philadelphia in various work out gear before eventually ending up sharing her feelings via interpretive dance after apparently breaking into the local opera house. Opera house? I thought this b*tch was a dentist.

As bored as I was already, I have to admit that she looked good. Granted, I don’t find her especially attractive from the neck up even in spite of the smoky eyes and carefully muted make up; however, unlike Ali before her she looked fit and ready to go. Nice job, Ashley. Way to put in the work.

After her Tenley impression, we see Ashley doing some fake dentisting and dance instructing. Her midriff is in full view. In fact, I believe even her dental scrubs were carefully hemmed into a half shirt. I’m not certain yet, but based upon a comparative analysis of last season’s pool shots, I think she might have had an ABC-induced (and probably financed) boob job. I’ll get back to you on that theory, though. I’m not certain if they’re real or not. Then again, as far as I’m concerned, if I can touch a pair of boobs, they’re real.

Ashley eventually takes her half shirts and sports bras from Philadelphia to Los Angeles and substitutes the steps of the capital for the steps on the Santa Monica Pier. She jogs, broods, and introspectively walks in hopes of “finding love again.” Whatever. Then she introspectively drives “her” Maserati while brooding and thinking about jogging. “Where the f*ck is Harrison?” I asked my television before popping the top off my first Lone Star Beer of the season. “Let’s get the freaking love hunt on the road, for God’s sake,” I thought as we hear Ashley drop this season’s theme: No Regrets. Ironically, I already had regrets.

After a fire-breathing, elephant-riding, comforter-crying, heart-breaking preview of the upcoming season’s goings on, Harrison finally arrives and leads with “real love is a fragile thing that can fall apart at any moment.” Solid. As that rolled off Harrison’s tongue I pictured a forlorn Brad Womack angrily sipping a protein shake and fighting to swallow it in an effort to refrain from regurgitating the 16 egg whites and two chicken breasts he wolfed down after completing “Chest and Triceps Day” at the gym around the corner from his permanent bachelor pad. I simultaneously pictured the Hendrix family greeting Emily and her daughter at the Charlotte airport and loading her and Little Ricki’s suitcases into a stretch limousine on the way back to her free house. Of course, Emily was wearing her white shorts.

Harrison recaps what we just saw during the first 15 minutes of the show and introduces the first set of hopeful Fantasy Suite Fornicators. In the interest of brevity and organization, I’m going to depart from the chronology of the episode. I’ll recap all 25 guys together below in spite of the fact that the intros were split into two groups with a Harrison powwow in between. We’ll discuss the aforementioned powwow not and then we’ll talk about the dudes, the cocktail party, and the rose ceremony.

ASHLEY/HARRISON

After the set up, Harrison greets a sparkly gown wearing, bang sporting, clearly nervous Ashley as she exits the limo and gives him a familiar hug. It was nice to see Harrison working again. After his season-long phone in appearances last time around, I was glad to see him in his black suit and tie ready to earn a ton of cash for doing what he does. Man, I want that job. Just think, all that AND he has access to Emily’s phone number.

Harrison suggests a fireside, candlelit chat instead of the sterile formality of the mansion driveway. Ashley AGAIN reiterated her desire to find love in the shadow of her former indecisiveness and even cops to annoying herself with her own whining as she watched the final episodes of last season. She and Harrison prop up the “No Regrets” them a few dozen times and then once again for good measure. Ashley lets us know that she’s “continually growing” and expects to find a “happy ending.” Oh, why do they make it so easy for me?

I wondered if by “continually growing” she meant “continually growing” like Ali and Chantal before her or “continually growing” like Brad during his Dr. Jamie visits. Let’s face it, that’s a fairly important distinction to make considering half these guys are gay and Bentley could already not care less about her and her new bangs. Throw on 20 pounds and cover it up with a poorly placed sarong and she’s going to have a problem. Perhaps she’ll clarify that next episode. I suppose even if she doesn’t the camera doesn’t lie. Then again, as we saw in Ali’s season, a few well-placed shrubs and some creative camera angles can hide just about anything except Roberto’s hyperhidrosis.

I also found her desire for a “happy ending” to be an interesting choice of words considering the fact that the entire show is headed to the Far East in a couple of weeks. I guess if any of these folks—including Harrison and that fat guy with the leather hat who helped Roz pack her sh*t—are looking for a “happy ending” they’re most likely to find that sort of thing in that part of the world. For the record, there’s a place here in Austin called the Midnight Cowboy that’s been “handing” out happy endings since I was in college here. Ironically, the place is a couple of doors down from one of Womack’s bars. I love it.

Ashley finally sets up the “I’ve heard about Bentley” smack and Harrison pretends to be surprised to hear it. Clearly, ABC struck gold when they inadvertently stumbled across Wes Hayden’s dumb ass several seasons ago and, like anything that pulls in ratings, they’ve chosen to exploit it to the Nth degree. Finally, we get to meet the “men.”

THE PUTZ PARADE

1. Ryan—Super excited solar energy guy from California who loves to jog shirtless, save the planet, and make weird heart symbols with his hands while facing West (the direction, not the suitor) at sunset. He seemed a little nerdy but harmless. He’s rich, innocuous, and easy to get along with. He got the First Impression Rose even though Tim deserved it. His assertive entrepeneuriness was a little much for me, but hey, props for taking the lead. Like the Heisman or the Miss America crown, getting the First Impression Rose is often a curse. Nevermind Earth, we’ll see if he can save himself in the weeks to come.

2. J.P.—Good looking Construction Manager from New York with a propensity for v-necks, farmer’s markets, Jason Bourne pea coats, and looking like Lance Armstrong. He seemed nice enough too. He’ll stick around for a bit, but I didn’t see enough personality to carry him to Fiji. He’ll have to step it up to win. He scored some points by sharing his nickname of “Cupcake” with Ashley who apparently also wants to be called “Cupcake.” Weird. I’m sure Ames wouldn’t mind being called “Cupcake.” Incidentally, that was once my nickname. However, that was only within the confines of the Downtown Drunk Tank and I’m really not in the mood to discuss it. Let’s just say that I wanted a smoke real bad.

3. Ames—over-educated, over-achieving, over-athletic, Harry Connick, Jr. in a toupee look-alike who is clearly over-compensating for his own personal struggle with his sexuality. To hell with ultra-marathons, this guy is ultra-gay. Between the free ballet tickets, khaki dress pants, and his self-professed love of travel, my guess is that he “Ames” to meet the guys in the mansion more than he “Ames” to marry Ashley. I’m certain he’d rather be sucking on something other than the silver spoon in his mouth.

4. Ben C.—French-born, French-speaking District Attorney from New Orleans who says he’s a 215 on the 1-10 Romantic scale. He’s also a 215 on the 1-10 Cheeseball scale. Still, Ashley seemed to buy Le Crap spilling from his French pie hole. He should make it for a while. Oh, and he plays keyboard too. I’m certain that Ames would like him to fiddle on his organ for a while.

5. Ben F.—normal, low-key wine maker from Sonoma, California. Between his modest demeanor, trendy hair style, and the fact that he owns a freaking Sonoma winery, my guess is that he’ll get to Fiji. He seemed like the nicest, most normal guy in the bunch to me. I’m rooting for this guy.

6. Bentley—This season’s Wes Hayden but on steroids. Sporting the vague job description “Businessman” he’s clearly there to be an as*hole and I have to give the Producers credit. They picked a good one. Aside from dropping an “I don’t really give a f*ck about Ashley,” openly admitting he wishes Emily was the Bachelorette, and professing his desire to do nothing else but “win,” he was convincing enough to get Ashley to look past a phone call from a friend telling her that he doesn’t give a f*ck about Ashley, wishes Emily was the Bachelorette, and wants to do nothing but win. You can’t say she wasn’t warned.

Oh, and he was apparently married to a Care Bear in a previous life because he has a daughter named “Cozy.” Cozy? That can’t be real. Of course her sisters Snuggly, Comfortable, and Temperate would probably disagree. This guy will stick around until he has a Justin “Rated R” Rego type departure. He’ll make Frank look like Chris L.

7. Anthony the Butcher—Just a simple butcher from Wack-off, New Jersey. He seemed nice enough, but the guy was more Italian than Italy and struck me as a bit creepy. He got sent home along with his gold chain. I’m sure he’ll be able to tell his sob story to the 14 cousins and 3 brothers he shares a room with in his mother’s house. He’ll be fine. It never would have worked anyway. Fuggetaboutit.

8. West—District Attorney from South Carolina. Nice enough guy who scored points when he pulled a broken compass from his drawer full of broken compasses as a reminder to Ashley that he has a directional name. Nice touch, dude, but I’m sure there were 300 other women in South Carolina who spit up their chardonnay before stomping to their nightstands and throwing their broken compasses on the floor and smashing them into oblivion. He’s also got a deceased wife story that should keep him in the game for a bit; although I’m not really sure he’s ready to be there.

9. William—goofy but loveable cell phone salesman from Ohio. The women will adore this guy and his aww shucks bad luck stories all season, but he lost me when he started doing impressions to sell himself to Ashley. Like J.P., he too has a love for Jason Bourne’s wardrobe choices. He’ll make it relatively far but I think he’s too nice to go all the way. He’s holding the alcoholic father trump card in his back pocket and a story about at stopping watch that should make Ashley keep him around for a while.

10. Jon—giggly E-commerce guy who horrified Ashley by picking her up and putting her over his shoulder when he met her. He had the balls to call his mom during his first one-on-one with Ashley. Horrified, Ashley sent him packing back to Mommy. He cried after being eliminated. I’m sure his mom made him some of his favorite dessert treats and bought him a new pair of footed pajamas to ease the pain. Let’s hope the guy learned a lesson. He wasn’t bad looking.

11. Lucas—Sole Texan from Odessa. The guy was less animated than the wallpaper and his orange tie stood in stark contrast to his gray personality. He got a rose, but like Jon before him, didn’t do anything to earn it. Ashley noticed his good-smelling cologne. Perhaps it was Odessa crude oil, but regardless, he’ll have to do more to get noticed.

12. Mikey—Creepy chef in an equally creepy beige suit. He moved in for a kiss that looked more like an attempted assault than anything else. He too did just enough to stick around for another episode. Being the 8th least douchey of the bunch might have saved him this week, but he’s going to need to show her something in order to stick around.

13. Tim—The 5’4” Liquor Distributor and without question the single best Bachelorette contestant of all time. Clearly an alcoholic, all he needed was a little nudge in order to go careening off the edge of the cliff of sobriety like Buzz in Rebel Without a Cause when his leather jacket got stuck on the door handle in his chicken race with James Dean. The guy was like Joe Pesci and it didn’t take him long to get drunk enough to pass out and need to be carried off the premises. Frankly, I think this guy was robbed.

He clearly earned the First Impression Rose. After all it’s the First Impression Rose not the Biggest Ass-Kissing Pansy Rose. At least do the guy a solid and pin one on him before you cab him back to the Super 8 or wherever the losers get to spend the night before shelling out their own money for a cab ride to LAX the following morning. The only thing that could have made this guy more of a legend in my mind is if he would have dropped a “Will you marry me?” on Ashley as he was summarily carried off the mansion grounds and thrown into a minivan. Of course, he’s probably got all kinds of street cred in the neighborhood bar he frequents in Flatbush or Sheepshead Bay. I, for one, will miss you, Tim. Ironically, he might have been the only truly honest guy there. I can’t say enough about getting drunk and passing out at the first cocktail party. He’s like the Neil Armstrong of Bachelorette contestants.

14. Stephen—Hairstylist who looks like Jason Schwartzman and Ritchie Sambora had a love child. He’ll be gone as soon as Ashley gets wind of his profession. Nice hair, d-bag.

15. Chris D.—Purple tie and purple shirt wearing “Sports Marketing Coordinator” who invaded Ashley’s personal space. “Sports Marketing Coordinator?” That could mean he works at Foot Locker selling Air Jordans to teenagers. We shall see.

16. Rob—Technology Executive with a weak disposition and an even weaker handshake. I don’t remember much about him, which probably says it all. As if his George Michael-esque five o’clock shadow and yellow tie weren’t enough, he cried like the sissy he probably is when he was eliminated. Granted, that was probably the glass and a half of pinot grigio he sipped at the cocktail party talking, but still.

17. Matt—Office Supply Salesman who borrowed his ill-fitting gray suit from his shorter, skinnier brother. He led with a secret handshake. Weak, dude. Weak.

18. Jeff (Mask)—This season’s Madison who favors a mask instead of fangs. His lack of personality won’t allow him to wear the mask forever. Like Madison, I think he’ll prove to be a dud and his departure will be anti-climactic. My favorite part was when he made the speech about the importance of what’s on the inside of a person before sitting down with Ashley and droning on about how pretty she looked. Dude, go heavy or go home. If you’re going to have a stupid gimmick, do your homework and stick to your story. Jackass. Tim’s reaction to the mask was priceless. Anthony the Butcher also dropped a “what the f*ck” him when he saw the mask. He looked ridiculous and minus the Producer’s pick, he should have gone home. It’s going to be a bitch to swim in the pool with that thing on. Perhaps he has some black goggles.

19. Frank—After an awkward wink and a tie fix upon exiting the limo like Larry hitting on women at the Regal Beagle in Three’s Company, Frank performs a Johnny Castle lift and a few dance moves. (Insert elimination buzzer here). His two moments of glory came when he referred to the obviously inebriated Tim as a “hazard” and when he coined the phrase “if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the oven.” Classic. To be fair, the oven is usually located in the kitchen and is the source of the aforementioned heat that one can’t stand. He went home.

20. Michael—Technical Sales Rep. from California. He led with dentistry jokes and finished with gas jokes. Terrible. Just terrible.

21. Chris M.—Construction CEO with a medallion and frosted tips. At first I thought he was gay, but I soon realized that he was just Canadian. Between the severe accent, the shirt open to his groin area, and the over-the-top approach he was destined for failure. Three strikes, Chris. You’re OOT.

22. Ryan M.—Construction Manager from Michigan who imitated Ashley’s limo exit and then proceeded to take pictures of her. He overdid it a bit by asking for one too many pictures and insisting on getting one with Harrison, but he recovered during the cocktail party and seemed nice enough. We’ll see if he can differentiate himself from the pack.

23. Nick—Personal trainer with Sammy Hagar circa 1985, Willie Ames, and Greatest American Hero haircut with a soul patch. His attempt at “poetry” was pathetic. Stick to leg curls and egg whites, Nick. Ashley seemed to like him. He should last a few shows. I’m sure he can’t wait to get to the pool. If he gets eliminated, his Cardio-kick Yoga-lates Class should fill up faster than Tim’s liver with alcohol.

24. Blake—The only real dentist on the show. That’s fitting because he’s about as exciting as a root canal. The shared profession should be good for a rose or two but the guy was boring. He reminded me of the Douchebag from Denton.

25. Constantine—Roman emperor who issued the Edict of Milan in 313, which proclaimed religious tolerance of all religions throughout the empire. The first emperor to convert to Christianity. Oh, wait. This guy is just some jackass that shares his name. He looks like Stephen the Hairdresser and The Low Key Wine Guy’s older brother. We’ll see how he shapes up in the weeks to come.

THE COCKTAIL PARTY

I’ll cut this short by saying that other than Tim’s legendary departure, the cocktail party was the usual sword fight we witness every season. Bentley reestablished himself as the bad guy and everyone else floundered around like fish on a dock for Ashley’s attention. No big surprises. Harrison emerged with the ubiquitous champagne glass and butter knife and the rose ceremony went down as usual.

ROSE CEREMONY

1. Ryan (First Impression Rose)

2. Jeff (Mask)

3. Constantine (former Roman emperor)

4. Ben F. (Sincere, normal Wine Guy)

5. Lucas (Boring Texan)

6. Stephen (Hairdresser)

7. Matt (I can’t remember him)

8. Nick (Personal Trainer)

9. Chris D. (No memory)

10. Ryan M (Camera guy with crush on Harrison)

11. Blake (the only real dentist on the show)

12. Mikey (first kiss creepy guy)

13. Ben C. (French speaking D.A.)

14. West (the opposite of East)

15. William (he’s afraid of beer)

16. J.P. (Lance Armstrong look alike nicknamed “Cupcake”)

17. Ames (Harry Connick, Jr. in a toupee)

18. Bentley (this season’s Wes Hayden)

Sucked out like loose plaque

1. Anthony the Butcher

2. Rob (super gay crushed guy)

3. Jon (he’ll be remembered only for crying)

4. Frank

5. Michael

6. Chris M. (He didn’t seem too upset aboot getting kicked oot)

7. Drunk Tim (Clearly robbed of the First Impression Rose)

Well, there it is. With the Journey count 6 and the Amazing count at an impressive 12, we head into week two where, as always, more of the dead weight will be shed in favor of the actual front runners. Let’s just enjoy the ramp up, shall we? From here on out, I’ll post on Tuesday afternoons. I look forward to your feedback. Get your betting pools ready. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be wearing a mask and drinking until I lose the power of speech and the ability to stand. DP

Final Off Season Post: Valium, Vicodin, Verbosity, and Veracity

Hello, Readers—what’s left of you at this point—and welcome back from my self-imposed get well hiatus due to the less-than-pleasant oral surgery that I had about 10 days ago. For those of you who care, like certain parts of the Bachelor contestants after a night in the Fantasy Suite, my face is still a bit puffy and sore, but I’m recovering nicely. Thanks to all of you who took the time to send me well wishes, emails, and half naked pictures of Pippa Middleton. They were all instrumental parts of my recovery. Coincidentally, there are several bars in Austin that are now unexpectedly stocked with an overabundance of Lone Star Beer. In short, I have a lot of catching up to do.

Flashback a few days and picture a doped up, swollen version of Some Guy in Austin lying on his couch swimming in the delirium of a post-surgical haze. When a person is laid up and chock full of Vicodin and Valium he tends to have a lot of time to ponder life’s deepest questions. Granted, that person can hardly spell the word “life” during that legally-sanctioned, prescription-induced bender, but life’s big questions do rattle around inside his head.

Normally, my thought process can be likened to a school of tadpoles in a shallow pond. They sit there patiently waiting for the interrupted stillness and then dash forward in an orderly, organized fashion with a strong sense of purpose and an uncontrollable desire to live and be heard.

My thought process on the generous supply of Valium and Vicodin prescribed by my doctor was more akin to the bubbles inside of a lava lamp. Thoughts slowly and unpredictably emerged from the mass of gelatinous mush at the bottom of the lamp where they eventually broke off into smaller, directionless bubbles and floated aimlessly toward the top only to collide with other aimless bubbles before bouncing around and falling gently downward and being reabsorbed by the shapeless mass below without accomplishing anything. In short, I was higher than Chicago gas prices for a few days and I got nothing done.

The silence I experienced is a rare thing in my life. Frankly, at one point there was a realization that a.) I’m rarely alone for more than a couple of hours, and b.) aside from the shower and my mid-morning trip down the hall for my post-coffee “consult,” I rarely have the time to really sit and think. After a day or two, I experienced flashes of clarity—some profound, some not so profound. At a certain point, I began to record my thoughts. What you see below is the result of my efforts. Keep in mind that I was loaded with narcotics. The following stuff actually went through my head in the span of a couple of hours. With that said, let’s get to it.

MY MID-LIFE CRISIS

There were moments during my recovery when I could feel every muscle and every bone in my body literally stinging with age. I don’t consider myself old; however, I don’t consider myself young anymore either. Frankly, I’m in the sweet spot. In other words, I’m old enough to date a recently divorced M.I.L.F. (look it up if you don’t know what that means) but young enough to have a fling with her oldest daughter. Granted, I’m not in the habit of doing either of those things, but if I wanted to capitalize, now is the time. I’m just saying.  After all, a man is only as old as the woman he feels. Groucho Marx said that and I’m happy to steal it.

Incidentally, I believe the plural form of “M.I.L.F.” is “Milves.” What’s that? Use it in a sentence? “Some Guy in Austin went to the mall and saw a bunch of Milves when he walked by Build-A-Bear Workshop.”

“Bunch of Milves.” Is that the correct nomenclature in order to refer to an instance where more than two Milves congregate? Let’s see, there’s a Pack of Wolves, a Gaggle of Geese, a Murder of Crows, and a Herd of Cattle. I suppose a “Bunch of Milves” will work. Then again, I do like the alliteration of “Myriad of Milves,” “Mass of Milves,” “Morsel of Milves,” “Mob of Milves,” “Multitude of Milves,” or “Mountain of Milves.” It certainly makes it easier to remember. Annnyyyyyyhoooo . . .

Because I was given the unique opportunity of feeling older than I actually am, I began to ponder my inevitable Mid-Life Crisis. Granted, it’s still early, but planning is essential, I reasoned, and now is as good a time as any to kick around a few ideas.

Hair plugs and a sports car is a logical place to start; however, I have a full head of hair and I can’t afford a sports car. Besides, I normally don’t feel my age. I always feel like an 18 year old. Unfortunately, there’s never one around. Ahh, my first one liner in two weeks. It’s good to be back.

For the record, I probably can’t afford an 18 year old either. Well, unless we’re talking mail order bride from Russia or the Philippines, but with my luck “Svetlana” or “Imelda” would quickly discover the bastions of teen fashion Hollister, Gadzooks, or Forever 21 and I’d be broke before either one of them figured out that the crap they paid top dollar for at those stores was actually manufactured by their much younger brethren and smuggled into this country in a shipping container not unlike the one they were surreptitiously loaded into with a gallon of water, some assorted candies, and a urine jar in order to get over here in the first place.

So much for my Mid-Life Crisis.

And another thing: why is “Philippines” spelled with a “ph” but people from that part of the world are referred to as “Filipino:” with an “F?” Seems odd, doesn’t it? It’s a damn good thing that rule doesn’t apply in Thailand. People from Phuket would be called Fuckers.

THE BACHELORETTE

Speaking of fuckers, the next season of the Bachelorette is getting ready to begin on May 23 and that means my Monday nights—and the first few hours of every new Tuesday—are booked for the next 10 weeks in order that I might regale my loyal and seasonal readers with example after example of my sharp wit and beguiling humor. In order to “prepare” for the upcoming hoopla, I took the time between my Zen-like trips beyond reality to review the ABC.com website in order to remind myself how big Ashley’s forehead is and to see this season’s Parade of Putzes vying for a possible chance at becoming the potential Mr. Fivehead . . . maybe. Hey, do you think Brad and Emily will be invited back along with Ryan and Trista and Jason and Molly to offer some advice on how to handle the stress of . . . oh, wait.

Bangs are the right choice for Ashley, but she’s still just not that attractive to me. I can’t wait to see her judgey, tattooed, attention-seeking, dangerously bitter-below-the surface sister again.

I’ll get to the individual breakdown of the guys next week. We all know that set up sets the tone for the season. Besides, I’d hate to plant any preconceptions in the readers’ minds about the favorite, the psycho, and the dark horse. I’m sure there are wagers being made as I type this and I don’t want to mess up the odds.

I will say that collectively the guys look more like the headshots they’ve submitted were taken during a casting call for the Summer tour of Rent rather than an offering as single men vying for the attention of Ashley’s forehead. Did anyone else notice that?

Look, I doubt that ALL of these guys are gay, but come on. As I looked through the pictures, I could almost hear the Maroon 5 playing in the background. I’m surprised that half these guys didn’t answer “Anderson Cooper” when asked who they admire most. Pastel shirts? Plump Red Lips? Tanning cream? Either something is super gay in Denmark or the airbrush ABC used to tighten up the headshots was inadvertently locked on the Ricky Martin setting.

For crying out loud, one guy admits to having a crush on Arnold Schwarzenegger, which is fortuitous considering the fact that it appears that Arnold is going to have a little spare time on his hands for the rest of his life. Oops.

Remember my comments a few weeks ago about the dangers of revealing long ago infidelity in a marriage when the affair is over? I suppose that applies here, but to be fair to Arnold, it must have been difficult to explain why the housekeeper’s kid spoke with an Austrian accent and had a tendency to bench press his crib. I feel bad for Maria and the kids, especially the illegitimate one. Let’s be honest, though. There are plenty of 10 year old illegitimate kids running around the country without having Conan the Barbarian royalties to go after. At least he’s got that going for him. Back to the “men.”

Another guy claims “hairdresser” as his occupation and another dude (check out thirty-five year old Tim from Massapequa) makes Liza Minelli’s ex-husband look masculine. Hell, he even makes Liza look feminine. I’m certain he’s a Judy Garland fan as well. Again, ALL of these guys can’t be gay, but where there’s smoke there’s fire and where there’s fire you can always find a few flames. Now THAT would be a hell of a twist this season. I can’t wait to see which one of these guys is going to make it past a couple of rounds and then admit to Ashley during a one-on-one that when he filled out the application to be on the show, he thought he was signing up to meet Brad Womack. I literally can’t wait.

Derek and the Boys from South Beach are aware that I don’t care where two consenting men prefer to park their manhood and God knows I don’t care which side of the field a person punts from; however, signing up for a reality show where the intent is to court and marry a woman is a situation where that sort of thing does matter. I’m curious to know what Derek and the Boys can tell us heterosexuals about the selection of suitors this time around. I’m certain they’ll have fun watching the first episode.

Tune in next Tuesday when Some Guy plans to dust off all of his weapons in an effort to provide you an entertaining play by play account of the courting, carousing, and crying. Next subject.

TREES

Trees are green. Cedar trees have weird, stringy bark that peels off and smells nice but I’m allergic to cedar so even though I enjoy the sight and smell of the cedar trees in and around Austin, I can’t fully enjoy them because my eyes itch and my chest gets a bit congested when I’m around them. This happens when I go for mountain bike rides in the Hill Country or run down by Barton Creek during the pollination seasons. Live oaks are beautiful tress with thick, immovable bark and powerful, broadly reaching limbs. I like them. When I see the open limbs of a live oak tree I think they look like the open arms of a person and then I invariably think about the recurring dream that Holden Caufield had in Catcher in the Rye where he ran, arms outstretched, toward the children trying to preserve their innocence. O.J. wasn’t innocent but I don’t think it would have mattered if he was because Holden Caufield was a pussy and if O.J. was running toward him in a field of rye grass there is no way Holden could tackle him. I like milkshakes as well. I’m not allergic to them although some people—particularly Hispanics—are lactose intolerant and probably don’t enjoy milkshakes as much as I do. I wonder if they sell less milkshakes in San Antonio because of all of the Hispanics there. Apparently, they found something to replace the milkshake there because San Antonio is literally one of the fattest cities in America. It’s too bad San Antonio isn’t near Phuket, Thailand because then it would be the Phattest City in America, which is an entirely different thing. I think I took one too many pills.

THE END

It’s been said that a good piece of literature is like a woman’s skirt: It should be long enough to cover the really good stuff, but short enough to keep a person interested. And, with that, I’ll wind up today’s entry and get some much needed mental rest in order to gear up for the big premier next week.

As always, thank you all for reading, tolerating me, and sending your thoughts and comments. Thank you to all of you who stayed with me during the off season. I hope I continued to entertain despite my departure from my usual material.

I’ll see you back here next week for the rundown of the new season. Take care of yourselves and the people you love and give thanks for what you have. In the meantime, if you need me I’ll be watching Anderson Cooper on mute while dancing around my living room with Maroon 5 on the radio and a class of sangria in my hand. DP

Doped Up and Run Down

Hello Readers.  I come bearing some bad news--at least temporarily.  I had some oral surgery on Friday and I've been so doped up on hydrocodone and Valium that I haven't had the time or the energy to put a thought together much less pick a topic.   Couple that with some other things in my life and I'm spent. 

The blog will be on a much needed hiatus this week but will return very soon.  I plan to give a pre-Bachelorette rundown on the latest round of stiffs picked to fawn over the Fivehead this season.  If you haven't seen them, go to ABC.com and clilck on the heading for the Bachelorette. 

In the meantime, I'm going to let my facial swelling and brusing subside and allow my motor neurons to reconnect.  Have a wonderful week.  I'll talk to you soon. 

DP

Off Season Post 7: Emily Who?

Hello, Faithful Off-Season Readers, and welcome back. I hope your week was both eventful and constructive. It’s been a significant week in U.S. history and before I get to the fun stuff, let me say thank you to all of the friends I have who voluntarily signed up for the military and to my cousins who proudly serve the New York City Fire and Police Departments. You do what you do so I can do what I do and not have to worry about how, when, or where I do it, so thank you all for all you do. I plan to do it in honor of you. With my freedom in tact and justice handed out, let’s get to it.

I want to thank all of you who took the time to send me a cheery or inspirational message this week. I realize you all have lives too and my own misery is not something you need to worry about. I’ve yet to respond to all of the well wishes, not due to sheer volume, but due to my own laziness. Your thoughts do not go unnoticed or unappreciated, however. Thank you for caring.

While pondering this week’s topic, I could not help but notice the wide array of responses my last post received both in the comment section and via email. I was surprised at that a lot of you agreed with me about the royal wedding and not so surprised that some of you didn’t. I even got one piece of particularly entertaining hate mail from a guy whose wife took my side on the topless bar thing. I’d like to respond now. Ahem . . .

Look, Dude, everyone is entitled to an opinion—including me, and more importantly in this case, your wife. If my blog is the straw that breaks the back of your marriage then I’d be willing to bet that metaphorical camel’s back had a whole bunch of other stuff weighing it down—like your propensity to lie to her about going to topless bars, for instance. That’s just a guess. Please redirect your hate mail to Dr. Phil or Oprah. I’m just Some Guy in Austin. I’m sorry your wife doesn’t like you going to topless bars. Be a man and talk to her about it instead of blaming me for it. Back to the blog.

Despite my best efforts this week, I could not avoid the coverage of the wedding that I tried to avoid and swore not to write about. Like the smell of alcohol on David Hasselhoff, it was everywhere. Trying to avoid the media coverage of the royal wedding was like going to the Champ-Ellysees in France in May of 1940 and trying to avoid marching, jack-booted Germans. Eventually, I was forced to deal with it.

I did some day drinking with a few friends this weekend and arrived home in the early evening in order to settle in on the couch and flip some channels prior to showering, musking up, and heading back out for some more Lone Stars and live music. As I flipped around I came to a BBC channel on the menu that read “Highlights of the Royal Wedding.” In my relaxed state, I hit the “select” button out of sheer curiosity assuming I could cover the entire wedding in all of its glory inside of 15 minutes. I resolved to get to the bottom of the hoopla.

An hour and a half later I was still waiting to get to the wedding. I was “treated” to a “brief” history of the royal family which was intermittently interrupted by various “style experts” so they could opine about things like what the Queen would wear and what designers were rumored to be involved in making the outfits of various celebrity guests. I have to admit that this part of the coverage was actually interesting to me. It provided an historical context along with building anticipation for the big event. “Alright, perhaps I see what at least part of the hoopla is about,” I thought to myself as I adjusted my couch pillows and settled in for a little more. After all, I was free to change the channel at any time and I figured I’d hang in there right up until the point I became annoyed.

After watching snippets of the Queen and Prince Phillip as well as watching the giant-eared Charles in his early 30’s marry the 19 year old Diana (who knew that wouldn’t work?), the host let me know that it was time to cover the entrance of the future Dutchess of Cambridge, Kate Middleton, after the commercial break. Fantastic, now we’re getting somewhere.

By the way, is there any better job than being Prince Phillip? He’s been window dressing for 58 years. His only responsibilities are to dress up like he’s told and stand in the background. Being the husband of the Queen of England is tantamount to dating the Maid of Honor in a wedding where you don’t know the bride and groom. You put on a fancy suit, make sure she gets to the church on time, and then hit the bar at the reception while she fluffs the train, holds the bouquet, kisses the bride’s ass, and smiles a lot.

Sure, you look in on her once in a while and flash an “is everything ok, honey” smile before returning to your post at the bar and waiting for the DJ to play the Chicken Dance or Strokin’ before hitting the dance floor, but there’s not much else to it. Unlike most guys, Phillip doesn’t even have to hold her purse while she shops. Being Mr. Queen of England is a good gig if you can get it.

Speaking of Queens of England, the show gave me a few shots of Elton John and his wig sitting next to his “wife” before we went to commercial break. I wondered what Elton John would be getting David Furnish for Mother’s Day. I pondered that as I went and grabbed a Lone Star, not because I was thirsty but because I planned to use it as sort of an hourglass. Once I was through with the beer, I reasoned, it would be time to click off the festivities and prepare for my own festivities. At least I’d have some royal wedding pointers to impress the ladies with when I ventured out.

I have to confess that in my partially inebriated state, my eyes began to droop a bit while waiting for the start of the big event. I was actually relieved when it finally came back on and the cacophony of cameras in Westminster Abbey covered the less than cantankerous crowd because their eyes appeared to be drooping as well. I wondered if there was a big Lone Star Royal Wedding Kickoff Bash the evening before.

Like much of my life these days, I found myself dozing in and out of consciousness as the lone BBC announcer droned on about pageantry, history, and tradition in a monotonous formal English accent. He was more John Geilgud than he was Eliza Doolittle. That voice along with the funeral music emanating from the choir was like Propofol and I fought in vain to stay awake.

To add to the confusion, it took me a long time to figure out that because this was a “highlights” version of the wedding, the damn thing wasn’t in chronological order. Granted, I was relieved to know that I wasn’t absolutely crazy, but the jumping back and forth and to and fro was still frustrating. It was like reading Lewis Caroll or listening to Charlie Sheen rant about being a warlock or whatever. Incidentally, can anyone believe that guy actually had the balls to ask for full custody of his kids after his second old lady fell off the wagon. . . again? That train will eventually derail.

At any rate, with my attention focused squarely on the television, I finally got a glimpse of Phillip and William in their wedding attire. William and Phillip were dressed like nutcrackers. Black pants with a red stripe, stiff red coat ornamented with golden shoulders and cuffs covered in a bunch of medals and that thick, golden rope usually reserved to securing red velvet balcony curtains at various opera houses and public venues was their choice of costume.

William’s entire ensemble was tied together with a blue over-the-shoulder sash. I half expected the Sugar Plum Fairies to twirl around him on the altar as he waited for Kate to arrive. Speaking of Sugar Plum Fairies, I wondered what Elton John would be getting David Furnish for Mother’s Day. Annnyyyyhoooo . . .

Looking at William dressed as he was, I couldn’t help but envision him dislocating his royal jaw and cracking a coconut with those giant royal teeth. It’s no wonder we beat them in the Revolutionary War. It would be difficult enough to execute a successful use of the bathroom in that get up much less fight a war in it. A blue sash? The last time I saw a man wearing a light blue sash I was on Fourth Street passing a bar named Oilcan Harry’s on Miss Gay Austin Pageant Night.

Seriously, if I want to see a guy look ridiculous in a red coat I’ll go to the mall and watch the security guards harass the teenagers in the Food Court. How ever many pounds they shelled out at Al’s Royal Tuxedo Rentals for those outfits was too much.

Next, I got a glimpse of Prince Harry, the Fredo Corleone of the English Royal Family. He looked like William’s long lost royally drunken uncle more than he did his royal brother. He had his own version of a majordomo outfit on and, frankly, it looked like he’d raided Charles’ closet in search of an important outfit to wear for the big ceremony. We all knew he had a dime bag of weed in the front pocket and a glass pipe in the other. I hope he had the royal courtesy to offer the Queen a bump or two before the ceremony. From the looks of it, Phillip certainly took a few hits.

Then there was his hair. Don’t they have a royal hair dresser somewhere in that palace or was he off cavorting around with the royal tailor? They should have cut Harry’s hair and made one of those English wig things for William to cover up his woefully thin locks. He looked like Donald Trump minus the comb over. Elton John could have at least offered him one of his spare wigs for the big event.

I haven’t seen anything that pathetically thin since I watched Natalie Portman binge every five minutes between auto-erotic bathtub fantasies in Black Swan. She deserved the Oscar, by the way. Oh, and is it just me or does Harry look a lot more like Diana’s former “bodyguard” than he does Charles? I’m just saying.

It was at this point that I took great pause. I took pause partly because I was out of beer but also because I realized how freaking somber everyone in the church looked. For crying out loud, wasn’t this supposed to be the most joyous occasion in England since the last royal wedding? If you could have taken the fancy outfits off the entire crowd and put them in normal street clothes the entire assembly could have just as easily have been the latest bunch of people to receive a jury summons and be forced to spend an entire day waiting around the courthouse to see if they’d be picked to sit on a jury and decide which party has a better lawyer. That’s a little legal humor there for you, folks.

The beatification of Pope John Paul II was more cheerful than the wedding, for God’s sake. The biggest difference was that during that ceremony John Paul was more animated than Prince Philip. He looked healthier too. Speaking of the beatification, I hope we all appreciate the irony of the German pope ordering the exhumation of a Pole so he can praise him. How happy do you think all the Italians are that the first non-Italian pope ever is also on the fast track to sainthood? Incidentally, did you hear they closed the soccer stadium in Warsaw? Apparently, wherever you sat you were directly behind a Pole.

After a few minutes the announcer mercifully announced the arrival of the soon-to-be Mrs. Dutchess of Cambridge and perhaps one day the Queen of England, Kate Middleton. I have to confess that prior to her stepping out of the carriage and being escorted by her father—who was the only normally dressed attendee I’d seen so far—I had never really taken the time to look at her. Sure, I’d seen her on the news or on the cover of various magazines while waiting to pay for my Lone Star and condoms in the grocery line, but I never really checked her out.

I prefer brunettes to blonds and while I don’t really have a “type,” there are some qualities that capture my attention. I have to admit that when she began to walk down the aisle next to her father I did take note that she looked very attractive. She has a pleasant face and nice features. She was, in fact, the first person I’d seen smile all day. Speaking of attractive women, I wondered what Elton John was going to get David Furnish for Mother’s Day.

As I watched the close up of the soon-to-be bride, I thought it was a nice moment to see her father walking her down the aisle. He appeared nervous, but proud and I’m certain excited at the prospect of spending time enjoying various royal assets now that he’s technically part of the family. Marrying a daughter to a member of the royal family is like having a friend with a boat: you get to enjoy it whenever you want but don’t have the aggravation of dealing with it when you don’t. Good for that guy. Apparently, he’s a self-made, blue collar guy who worked pretty hard to build his fortune. I hope he spends the rest of his days lazing around in a drunken stupor with his wife on some country estate owned by the Queen.

As the cameras panned back to get us a look at the royal wedding dress, I noticed—for the first time—the Maid of Honor and the freaking hot, apparently single, sister of the bride, Pippa Middleton.

Let me just send out a collective “are all of you f*cking kidding me” to my entire audience. I received dozens of emails pleading and in some cases begging me to watch the royal wedding and then blog about it. I received many comments and Facebook posts touting the benefits of royalty and defending the honor of the Queen. Hell, the person whose idea it was to start this blog (Heather, you know who you are) even called me to personally invite me to some big hat wearing, tea sipping, royal ass kissing, middle of the night, wedding watching party in Colorado. However, not one of you found it necessary to mention the fact that the bride had a smoking hot sister who would be prominently featured in a contoured, tight-fitting silk dress as she repeatedly bent at the waist to fluff the train? It occurred to none of you that her hotness might be an important piece of relevant information to share with me? Say it isn’t so.

Speaking of “fluffing the train” I again wondered what Elton John would be getting David Furnish for Mother’s Day.

For the next hour, I watched the morose coverage of what was perhaps the most somber joyous occasion in history. Pippa was like a diamond in a sea of mud. Look, I know the British—in particular the “upper class” British—are known for being a bit stiff in the upper lip, but the wedding was ridiculous. I’m not exaggerating when I say that if I closed my eyes and listened to it I could have just as easily pictured myself listening to a state funeral. The vows were boring, the songs were boring, the readings were boring, the people looked bored, and the announcers sounded bored. Look, I didn’t expect a scene from Sister Act, but come on. Live a little. Your joyous occasions don’t have to be as bland as your weather and your food.

Back to Pippa.

Like a kick to the crown jewels, every time they showed the enchanting Pippa Middleton, I became short of breath. She’s hotter than her sister and was certainly hotter than any of the stiffs in the audience. She even had the gall to smile a few times. I became more enthralled with her when I Googled her and found out that she’s a bit of a tomboy and is well-known around various British pubs in her neighborhood where she’s said to be a “big part of the social scene.” That’s code for “she drinks a lot and puts out.” God Save Pippa Middleton.

Look, she’s the sister of the Dutchess of Cambridge and I’m just some hapless dirtbag wandering aimlessly from honky tonk to honky tonk. I’m sure we can overcome our differences. I’d be happy to meet her in the Middleton . . . if you know what I mean. Hell, I’d even give her a fancy title. Dutchess of Austin or Princess of My Honky Tonk or something else regal like that would do, right? I could change my title to Some Duke in Austin or Sir Guy in Austin if it would help.

Inevitably, I found myself wondering if she had a pair of those white shorts like the ones that the one girl on that show that I write about had on that one trip to Africa. If only I could remember her name. . . . That was soooo March of 2011.

At any rate, if any of you out there have a strong desire to make up your failure to inform me of the aforementioned hot younger sister of the newly minted Dutchess of Cambridge, please feel free to photo shop a pair of those white shorts onto a picture of Pippa Middleton and send it to me post haste. That should solve the problem.

I ended my spontaneous royal wedding party by waiting one more commercial break for what was perhaps the most overly hyped and underwhelming post-wedding kiss in the history of all kisses . . . ever. When William kissed Kate . . . excuse me, Catherine, on the balcony it looked like he was kissing Charles on the mouth. I understand royal formality and all that stuff, but come on, show a little passion toward your new bride, Nutcracker Boy. I was just happy he didn’t open his mouth too widely and crack her skull like a walnut. Speaking of cracking nuts, I wondered what Elton John would get David Furnish for Mother’s Day.

Well, there it is. Congratulations on successfully getting me to watch a wedding I swore I’d never watch. All kidding aside, being that couple is probably not the easiest thing to do. I sincerely hope that that are genuinely happy and that they can share that happiness and optimism with anyone who will listen. Weddings are always pregnant with possibility and it’s sad to me when one of them ultimately ends in divorce. I hope that doesn’t happen here. That would be terrible. If William and Kate get divorced, where in the hell will Pippa and I go on holiday after we’re married?

Until next week, take care of yourselves and tell some people you love how much you love them. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be writing letters to Pippa Middleton in hopes that she’ll come to Austin and fluff my train. DP