Bachelorettes Britt and Kaitlyn: Episode 1: Ryan Rules

Journey Count 2

Amazing Count 8

. . . and we're off.  

Like American Pharaoh speeding away from the competition toward the finish line, The Bachelorette came thundering back into our living rooms tonight.  Yes, Folks, it's that time of year.  It's time for Kaitlyn and Britt to do their best to secure the 13 votes needed to propel one of them toward temporary superstardom while simultaneously jettisoning the other into a local cable TV hosting gig.  

If you don't count the drunk guy that Harrison and the fat guy with the black leather hat who helped Roz pack her sh*t when she cheated on Jake at his own cocktail party kicked out on night one,  then it's time for 24 bros to sword fight their way into the Fantasy Suite in order to possibly maybe propose to either Kaitlyn or Britt for a shot at conditionally earning the potential right to hypothetically be tentatively engaged for an indefinite period of time in order to think about getting married . . . maybe.  

As always, I'll disclaim the fact that this episode is really hard to keep track of and write about immediately after I watch it.  There are a lot of moving idiots to keep track of and with Harrison and the Fat Guy in the Leather Hat cleaning house, it was even more difficult this time.  And why don't they trust Harrison with the key to the Rose Boxes?  Perhaps they need two keys to open them like the nuclear code briefcase?  At any rate,  I'll break it down by the guys in order of their appearances on the ABC website rather than on the show.  Pictures are there A.) to help us remember who the guys are; and B.) for purposes of mocking their appearance.  

A couple of observations first:  I'm a Kaitlyn guy for purposes of the show.  She's funny, more genuine, and probably a lot easier to deal with than Britt would have been.  Britt is physically hotter, but I could never date her.  Ever.  

I lack any inside information but my guess is that Kaitlyn is the Bachelorette.  Oh, and she reminds me of Miley Cyrus.  The good news is that we'll only have to wait a day to find out if she's the big "winner."  Either way, it's going to be a good season.  I can feel it.  Britt will settle in nicely to her Good Morning Burbank hosting gig.  

I'm more pumped up than Kaitlyn's new lips.  Now, let's get to it. 

Ben H., 26, Software Salesman--Ben tells us that, given the choice, he'd have lunch with Nelson Mandela because he was tortured and enslaved for what he believed in.  If that won't prepare Ben H. for marriage, nothing will.  His entrance was about as uneventful as a Mississippi spelling bee and he went to the "I do charity work with kids too" line way too soon.  Someone needs to tell him that Britt doesn't really DO the charity work.  She just signs up for it.  Perhaps his brothers Greg and Bobby can do that for him.  #peterbrady.

Ben Z., 26, Entrepreneur--He tells us that his greatest achievement is passing his personal trainer test.  Huge accomplishment, Ben Z.  Not everyone can teach girls how to lift weights while sitting on a giant rubber ball.  Crossfit obsession aside, he actually seemed relatively normal and does have the "my mother died when I was young" trump card to play should the time call for it.   

Bradley, 25, International Auto Shipper--wants a woman to turn the tables and pursue him.  That's called stalking, Bradley.  Frankly, that shouldn't be too hard to find.  He's the guy who showed up in a red headband with a tennis racket for some reason.  I say it every season, if a guy can survive the ridiculous entrance and lay low at the cocktail party, he's golden.  Fortunately for Bradley, Ryan M. made it easier than banging Claire in the ocean to stay below the radar.  Hell, Adolf Hitler could have stayed below the radar with Ryan M. at that party.  

Brady, 33, Singer/Songwriter--He dresses like Johnny Nagarelli in Grease 2.  He's probably excited to sleep on a cot in a crowded mansion rather than on his buddies' couches for a change.  Another guy with a guitar?  Please.  He tells us that he's "always had melodies inside" him.  It's too bad he didn't have any fashion sense in there as well.  I assume that, like me, you quickly tired of his "I'm a sensitive musician type who is in touch with my feelings" routine.  He and the Healer should collaborate.  They can write an entire album about bullshit.  

Chris, 28, Dentist--Nice blouse.  Was it me or did any of you get a creepy serial killer vibe from this guy?  Granted, dentists are a weird bunch, but I got an Aleister Crowley/Patrick Bateman vibe from him.  Give him a few years before he drops dentistry and ends up as the charismatic leader of his own cult.  Oh yea, and he drove a cupcake to the intro.  

Clint, 27, Architectural Engineer.  Hard job that requires smarts which explains the painfully awkward entrance and awkward side hugs he artfully designed on his drafting table for the ladies.  I'll bet some of you found that sweet and endearing.  He seemed nice enough.  I don't feel one way or another about him which means he had a successful cocktail party.  

Corey, 30, Investment Banker.  "Is the offer to plow your field still on the table?"  Solid entrance joke that bent but didn't break.  For an entrance that broke before it even bent, see the male stripper.    Corey kept it simple and got a big laugh out of Kaitlyn.  Women remember men who make them laugh.  He's a beach volleyball player which means he'll excel at the pool party.  If Kaitlyn is the Bachelorette, he'll do well in spite of the sexually ambiguous head shot.   

Cory, 35, Residential Developer.  I remember him because he's from Pearland, Texas which is about an hour from where I grew up.    He laid it on pretty thick at the intro but I'll chalk that up to nervousness.  The numbers favored him tonight.  If he can get over his nerves, he may do well.  

Daniel, 28, Fashion Designer.  He danced a lot in his intro.  He might have danced his way out of a shot at moving on to the next show.  He's window dressing and was in more background shots than the Grand Canyon.  Based on the editing, I say he's gone soon.  

David, 26, Real Estate Agent.  He had different hair which made me have to think about who he was.  He seemed friendly with the other guys which means he's probably sure enough of himself.  He'll probably stick around for a while.   

Ian, 28, Executive Recruiter with an undeniable attraction to Kaitlyn.  He made it clear he was attracted to her, didn't equivocate, and was the first to grab her at the cocktail party and spirit her away to the wicker furniture to profess his attraction to her.  He was a man among boys and didn't make a fool of himself doing it.  Good for that guy.  He's a Princeton educated former track star who fought back from a car wreck that almost ended his life.  If he can keep it together, he should go far.  It's always interesting to see how the people with real life experience and perspective excel on this show, isn't it?  Interesting indeed. 

Jared, 26, Restaurant Manager with the pointiest longest chin in the history of chins.  Good Lord. Was anyone else distracted by that thing?  It looked like something you'd tunnel though mountains with.  He's going to have to warn whoever goes in for the first kiss so she doesn't lose an eye.  He's a case study in mandibular prognathism and Bieber haircuts.  

J.J., 32, Former Investment Banker, which means he's currently unemployed.  He's probably filthy rich because the only "former" investment bankers I know are burnouts addicted to just about everything or had to quit their jobs so they could count all of their money.  He was the first to drop the "love at first sight' talk which is always a harbinger for some sort of borderline psychotic behavior.  Like Corey, he hit Kaitlyn with a sexually suggestive "I want to puck you" joke that went over well.  If he's not the possessive, insecure type he appears to be, he'll stick around.  

Joe, 28, Insurance Agent--Minus some orange hair he looks like The Heat Miser from The Year without Santa Claus.  He looks like David Boreanaz's older, less attractive brother.  He talks like Forrest Gump too.  Bless his heart, he's from Kentucky.  I actually liked him despite him being easy to pick on.  I'm just not sure either one of these girls is ready to entertain the small town move again.  He's not a smart man, Jenny, but he knows what love is.  

Jonathan, 33, Automotive Spokesman.  He lives in Detroit and has a 5 year old son.  He came across as a tad aggressive during the intro and was a big fan of Britt.  If she's not picked, then he'll likely lose interest.  Detroit is not exactly a big selling point either.  

Josh, 27, Law Student/Exotic Dancer.   Look, I hate to pile on but sometimes a guy comes along who asks for it.  It's perfectly ok to judge someone who asks to be judged.  Josh is one of those guys.  Based on the fake male stripper/fireman intro he concocted for the show so we could see him shirtless it was clear he had a lot of things tatooted on various areas of his body.  However, he had "Idiot" written all over him.  He has the number 22 tattooed on his chest in Roman numerals.  I assume that signifies what a jerkoff he is on a scale of 1 to 10.  Everyone knows that hot 20 something women don't go to male strip shows.  Middle-aged women who work in Accounting or Human Resources go there to celebrate a co-worker's successful lap band surgery.  Then again, aren't all strippers working on their Masters or Juris Doctorates?  Kaitlyn summed it up best when Josh tried to "impress" them with his stripper moves out of the limo.  "You can have this one, Britt."  Indeed.  Can't wait for him to continue to annoy me on Bachelor Pad.      

Joshua, 31, Industrial Welder.  Minus the vest/plaid shirt combo at the cocktail party, he was my favorite next to Joe Dirt from Kentucky.  Normal, blue collar, small town guy.  Unfortunately, Idaho starts with an "I" which means it will remind both women of Iowa.  

Justin, 28, Fitness Trainer.  He brought balloons for Kaitlyn.  Other than that . . . crickets. 

Kupah, 32, Entrepreneur.  The poor man's L.L. Cool J.  His entrance was not that Supah Dupah.  

Ryan B., 32, Realtor.  Clearly overshadowed (and out drunk) by his namesake below, Ryan B. dropped "Disney Princess" on Britt before taking the Most Feminine Guy in the Bunch trophy.  

Ryan M., 28, Junkyard Specialist.  Epic appearance.  "I'm not doing anything . . . except being awesome."  He quoted Anchorman and Swingers, threw an well-timed co*k block at the car pool guy, told at least three people they sucked, disrobed and got into the pool, stumbled onto his face when getting out of the pool, grabbed Kaitlyn's ass, referred to Britt and Kaitlyn as B*tches and Ho's, almost fought 3 guys, got summoned by Chris Harrison, escorted by the Fat Guy in the Hat, and was thrown out of the cocktail party but not before he could leave with a timid, "yea, sorry about that," to Harrison.  Say what you want about that guy but he was CLEARLY there for the right reasons.  There hasn't been a drunken appearance that good since that guy Jeff actually passed out at the cocktail party during Ashley's season.  Solid showing, Ryan M.  The best part about that is that it will actually improve his status among his Junkyard Specialist peers.   

Shawn B., 28, Personal Trainer.  Poor man's Ryan Gosling and he knows it.  From the ill-fitting shark skin suit to the facial hair and over gelled pompadour, he was clearly going for the Noah Calhoun vibe.  Britt and Kaitlyn seemed to suggest he'd have been given a first impression rose, but Mrs. SGIA wasn't seeing it and, frankly, neither was I.  

Shawn E., 28, Amateur Sex Coach and Professional Idiot.  The "car pool" was mildly amusing but we all know it wasn't his idea.  He seemed a little tightly wound after the co*k block from Ryan M. and then--apparently--thought it was appropriate to give Britt anal sex tips on their one-on-one time while simultaneously admitting he wasn't a "real" sex coach but he was just planning to be one when he found the right girl.  I'm sure all of you were squirming on your couch seats fanning yourselves to keep from fainting.  What a charmer.  His best bet would be to drop the act, but we all know he won't.  

Tanner, 28, Auto Finance Manager.  Milked the box of tissues schtick until its udders bled.  Another below the radar guy who seemed normal enough. We'll see what time tells.  If Britt is the Bachelorette he'll have to tell her that he's a Finance Manager.  Unlike him, she likely won't hold any interest.   You're welcome.  For those of you who got that joke, I'll be here all week.   Here's another one you won't enjoy.  I once asked a florist on a date.  She called me back and told me she'd already made other arrangements.   

     

Tony, 35, Healer.  Substitute a massage table for a guitar and he's basically Brady with longer hair.  Not only did he give the exact same welcome speech to both girls, he waffled all night until eventually picking Britt.  He "specializes" in "flexibility therapy" and talks to his plants.  He's one turquoise necklace and a lapis prism away from moving to Albuquerque or Sedona to align his chakras and center his whatever.  As far as I'm concerned he can stick it up his vortex.     

Well, there it is:  the season's first post.  Tune in tomorrow when we'll find out who gets picked and who gets kicked.  Oh, and there is another small piece of information I need to share.  

On Wednesday, Lincee www.ihategreenbeans.com Ray will be making the 3 hour drive to Austin, Texas to visit Some Guy and Mrs. Some Guy.  Why?  Chris Harrison is having a book signing at Barnes and Noble in the Arboretum.  Lincee and I are going to meet Harrison.  We'll be there from 6-8 and we're seriously considering setting up our own booth.  If you're in town, come say hello.  

Follow me on Twitter and post your comments below.  It's good to be back.  In the meantime, place your bets.  If you need me, I'll be drinking heavily and telling people how much they suck.   DP

Off-Season Post: Put Your Balls on the Table

Hello, Readers.  Welcome to my first off-season post after a couple of weeks away.  I trust the onslaught of speculation being spoon fed to us via grocery store periodicals since the big Bachelor finale has been enough to tide you over.  Some Guy, as always, has been engaged in the tug-o-war called law practice and, if I’m completely honest, it’s been a struggle to keep the flag on my side of the mud pit lately.  Let’s escape for a bit, shall we? 

It’s been a while since I shared one of my many folly of youth stories.  This one is one of my favorites.  It takes place in a bar located at the corner of 12^th Street and Lamar Blvd. in Austin called The Tavern.  I used to frequent it in my college days.  It holds the distinction of being the first air-conditioned place in Austin.  It was also once a house of ill repute and it’s alleged that a prostitute who was murdered there still haunts the upper floors to this day.  

You're Never Too Far from 12th and Lamar

Sadly, today it’s been turned into a shell of its former self.  Giant flat screen televisions have replaced neon beer signs and fancy, top shelf vodkas and craft beers have edged out the stuff they used to sell for a dollar a pitcher.  I’ll do my best to paint it the way I remember it.

For those of you who have been reading me for a while, you’ll recall that Some Guy has a twin, a best friend we call “Ted”, and a college roommate we call “Lenny.”  On the idiot scale between the four of us, it’s a dead heat.  To refresh your collective memory, you’ll recall me writing about the time Ted and I talked our friend into emptying his bowels into the neighborhood pool so Ted could get a day off his life guarding job to drive us to the beach.  

A FRIEND DOES HIS DUTY

You’ll also recall the story about Lenny, dressed as Batman and with a full keg of beer seat belted into the back seat of his convertible, told an Austin Police officer with a straight face that he did, in fact, blow through a blinking red light but it was fine because the light was “between blinks.” 

BATMAN

The list goes on. 

Every Monday (yes, Monday) night at The Tavern was “industry night.”   That meant that if you worked in the restaurant industry you got cheap drinks.  It was also a good place to partake in a pastime Ted and I developed into a bit of an art:  shooting pool for pitchers of beer against cocky frat boys whose dads were paying the bill anyway.  My brother and Lenny weren’t much for pool but usually came along for the buzz-inducing conversation and the cheap beer. 

At that time, the upstairs nook in The Tavern where the two pool tables resided side by side was a tight fit.  In fact, it was impossible for two people on opposite tables to simultaneously shoot. The area was surrounded by folks milling around or sitting anxiously in the corner watching their stack of quarters placed in sequence on the table signifying “next” when one team emerged victorious.  Bets (always 1 pitcher of beer) were immediately paid upon a loss and it was not uncommon to sit out a game in order to ingest excess winnings in the midst of a mean win streak.  An etiquette, a certain tact, was a requirement for those of us who played there regularly and it was easy to spot a rookie who didn’t know (or respect) the rules.

On this particular night, we arrived early.  As a result, Ted and I had our pick of a table and my brother and Lenny got prime bench seating real estate in the nook rather than being relegated to a far away table on the opposite side of the jukebox.  The real estate was prime but it also came with the rare exception that a guy was not required to stand and give up his seat to any girl who showed up.  Those were competition seats and the girls knew the drill. 

That may sound foolish, but that’s the way it works here.  My friend recently returned from a two week business trip to Minnesota and smiled ear to ear at the sight of 3 men standing like she was a judge entering the courtroom when she approached our table at a local bar.  “It’s so nice to be back in Austin,” she observed.  Of course, the definition of a real gentleman is a man who gets out of the shower to pee.  Indeed. 

Back to our story. 

Ted and I started out playing each other but were quickly interrupted by a couple of guys anxious to take our money.  A crowd also gathered around the other table as a game started there as well.  Handshakes were exchanged, the standard wager was agreed upon, and the ever-important stick selection commenced.  We were there first so they paid for the game, racked the balls, and we got first break. 

The other table began almost simultaneously.  Two fraternity guys—easily recognizable by the standard issue jeans, Red Wing Boots, Polo shirt, and backward ball cap that every single guy in the Greek community was required to wear—perish the thought of not conforming—in order to enter the filthy confines of his frat house, matched up against a couple of geeky looking engineering student types.  

SGIA’s brother and Lenny took their spot on the bench.  After dispatching the competition in the first game with a solid combination of teamwork and then a quick win on a scratched 8 ball on the double or nothing bet, Ted and I found each other with three full pitchers of beer and a red hot winning streak to pick between.   As the room started to fill, Ted and I kept playing as SGIA’s brother and Lenny spent time enjoying the fruits of our labor. 

After the 4^th or 5^th win, the cocktail table was replete with 4 empty pitchers and two full ones.  Ted and I were focused on the pool game and failed to recognize the most obvious truth in the bar:  Lenny and my brother were hammered. 

This is where it gets good.

A few shots into the next game it was clear that our competition was getting tired of losing.  Now before you accuse me of bragging, I’ll submit to you that there was a method to our madness.  Ted, my brother, and I grew up together playing pool on Ted’s parent’s game room pool table from the age of 9.  Couple that with the fact that the “competition” at The Tavern was non-existent, and you get the picture.  We went there to win beer and we inevitably did.  

Spoiled frat boys eventually get tired of losing their dad’s money and it was not uncommon for things to get a tad heated.  However, remember that unspoken etiquette I mentioned earlier?  It was that etiquette that kept the place free from cheaters, sore losers, and brawls.  It sucks to lose, but most folks got over it right away. 

After the third shot, Ted missed and one of the frat boys stepped up to shoot.  He was immediately bumped by the guy at the next table and became agitated.  The other guy apologized and stepped back to let him shoot.  He called the pocket, hit the cue ball, and proceeded, yet again, to scratch the 8 ball.  Frustrated, he slapped his stick onto the table.  Simultaneously, Ted began laughing and said, “now go get us another pitcher.” 

As if in slow motion, I looked from the opposite side of the table as the guy picked up the pool cue and made a b-line for Ted.  Before I could get over to help, the other guy grabbed me by the collar, forcing me to deal with him.  He threw a drunken punch, which I dodged before grabbing him by the arm and pulling him off-balance in my direction.   “Be cool.  This isn’t between us,” I said as we made eye contact.  He seemed to agree as we nodded and turned to see what his buddy was doing with Ted.

As we looked, I saw Ted purposely take the swinging pool cue to the ribs, fold his right arm over it trapping it in his underarm, and then pull it away from him while simultaneously taking two steps back in Lenny and my brother’s direction.  “That’s that,” I said to myself.  Ted and I had been in this situation before and it was what we’d characterize as a “flare up.” 

What WOULD have happened next is that both guys would have seen our refusal to fight but would have known that we weren’t going to back down.  Ted and I would have graciously shaken their hands and let them off the hook for the pitcher they owed us.  That would have warranted an apology and a gentlemen’s refusal to welch on a bet.  We would have ended up laughing and splitting pitchers with them the rest of the night.  Like I said, etiquette. 

Here’s what DID happen. 

As Ted disarmed the angry frat boy and we all started to relax, a drunken Lenny lurched off the bench, pushed past Ted, and grabbed the frat boy in a bear hug around the waist.  Lenny, from the Midwest, was an all-state wrestler in high school.  He lifted the guy up, threw him on the pool table, and got him in his famous submission hold—the dreaded Minnesota Face Lock.  That, of course, is the next most painful submission hold next to the Purple Hooter, but that’s a different blog post altogether.     

His friend, rather than coming to his rescue, threw another punch at me, forcing me, yet again, to deal with him.  As we wrestled in the close confines of the room, I could hear screams, scuffling, and glasses breaking.  I pictured 18 guys in the same outfit with the same Greek letters on their hats coming to the aid of their brothers.  I looked over and Lenny still had the other guy on the pool table in the face lock.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a large streak pass by and as I was being pushed into a video game I saw someone jump on Lenny’s back and begin swinging. 

Trying to get loose so I could help him, I threw my opponent into the pool table and reluctantly took a swing, connecting with his right eye.  As he let go, I saw my heretofore absent brother, who had been sitting on the bench like a wooden Indian watching the carnage, stand and calmly stagger over in a drunken haze to help Lenny.

Now, I’ll let you know that my brother and I are both what our high school basketball coach used to refer to as “wiry.”  Tall and thin, we were both deceptively strong; however, my brother was exceptionally so.  At 6’3” and about 190 pounds, to this day, while I now opt for running and biking as opposed to weights, he still bench presses well over 300 pounds. In our early 20’s when this story takes place, my brother was especially fit.  Again, I tell you this not to brag, but because of what was about to happen. 

As glasses were breaking and girls were screaming around us, my brother took one big step, put his left hand on the pool table and pushed himself up into the air.  He simultaneously cocked his right hand and proceeded to come down with his fist into the kidney of Lenny’s attacker with such force that a loud “THUMP” could be heard over all of the noise.  That “THUMP” was quickly followed by the overwhelming sound of all of the air in the lungs of the victim spontaneously emptying over tight vocal chords.  That was followed by a second thump when that person hit the floor. 

Surprised by the sound of what sounded like a dying animal grunting and then hitting the floor, the entire bar became silent as if the record needle scratched over the record.  We all stopped fighting and looked over at the sight of my brother standing there like Ali over Liston except the punch he had delivered had been far from a phantom punch. 

As Lenny released the face lock and his prisoner stood up, I walked around the pool table to survey the damage.  We all looked down at the crumpled mess on the floor at his feet.  Victorious, we were prepared to mock the fraternity brother who made the mistake of attacking our friend.  As my eyes began to process what I was seeing, the guy who started the whole mess looked incredulously at my drunken, swaying brother and said, “Dude, you hit my sister.” 

Upon closer inspection, lying at my brother’s feet wincing pain, was, in fact, a girl.  It was a large girl, but a girl nonetheless.  She had apparently been brave enough to attempt what none of the guy’s friends were brave enough to attempt:  jump into the fracas in a desperate effort to free her brother from the Minnesota Face Lock.  She paid the price. 

To this day, we still laugh at that story, but the part we laugh at is not just the punch.  The funniest part (to me anyway) came several seconds after we realized what had happened.  After realizing he’d hit a woman with the biggest kidney punch in the history of kidney punches, my brother reached down, helped her to her feet and then offered her his coveted bench seat.  He then walked to the bar, got an empty beer glass from the bartender, and proceeded to pour her a glass of the beer that Ted and I won off her brother in the first place.  Oddly enough, we all shook hands and apologized to each other. 

“Who’s up next?” asked Ted as he picked up the pool cue and began to chalk the end of it.  “We are,” said a voice from the corner as another set of frat boys stepped forward. 

As we stepped out of the bar that night on our way back to our cars, Lenny looked over at my brother and said sarcastically, “thanks for the help with that guy’s big sister.”  Without skipping a beat, my brother responded, “you’re welcome.  She’ll be peeing blood for a week.” 

Well, there it is.  Another one of my folly of youth stories.   To this day, I cannot drive by the intersection of 12^th and Lamar in Austin, Texas without thinking about that punch and smiling from ear to ear.  I hope you did the same when you read this.  Enjoy the rest of the off-season and check in for a post every now and then.  Take care of yourselves.  In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be shooting pool for beer. 

DP