Bachelor Juan Pablo Final Episode: Conjunto Con Un Pinche Cabron

NOTE:  If you commented on the Teaser Post "No Juan Wants to Talk to Me," see below.  I tried to get to them all before posting this.  Thanks!  DP

Well hello, Readers.  Welcome to the close of yet another season of the show we all ask ourselves why we watch.  Before I get to the ass-handing that Juan Pablo was given by Clare, Harrison, Sean Lowe (sort of), and his ill-fitting Eurosuit, let me set up the Post and the Off-Season.  After all, life is easier when we know the expectations.  It makes it easier to lower our own. 

This will obviously be my final post of the big season.  However, I do have a post or two in the cannon, as I found some time to write and some much needed inspiration on my recent trip to Vail, Colorado.  I also broke a couple of ribs skiing (poorly), but that’s another story.  

It seems that the fluffy, white powder racing beneath my skis is neither fluffy, nor powdery when you hit it shoulder-first at full speed.  What can I say?  I grew up in Texas.  Water skiing is one thing, snow skiing is another.  Any lesser blogger would have cashed it in. 

As for my off-season posts, I can’t promise any regularity.  I’ve tried that in the past and you’ve been sorely disappointed, so I won’t make that mistake again.  Work is . . . well, work, and I’ve got more to do now that I have ever had to do in my entire career.  That’s exciting and terrifying at the same time.  The good news is that three things bring me real peace: A Good Book, A Good Workout, and A Good Blog Post.  I’ll write, but I don’t know how much.  Check in from time to time, please.    

Thank you all so much for your loyalty over the last few years.  I appreciate the time you take each week to read what falls out of my head and into the keyboard.  Now, let’s get to it. 

With Chardonnay chilled, plates prepared, and charcuterie chopped we headed into the big show, breathless with anticipatory glee waiting to see Juan Pablo fumble the ball on the goal line.  And boy did he fumble.  

Not since Wes Hayden went rogue after his Assassination by Edit has ABC turned so patently and so belligerently against a cast member on this show.  Harrison was brutal—and visibly annoyed.  Hell, even Roz Papas was given the courtesy of that fat guy in the leather hat to help her carry her sh*t.  

(You didn’t think I could not mention that guy in the final post of the season, did you?)

Harrison was indifferent toward Ben, but he clearly hated Juan Pablo because Harrison knew what an insincere, self-centered, macho, Latin jerkoff he was while the rest of us were still in the dark about it.  He was like ABC’s Morpheus offering us the red pill—a better looking, pearly toothed Morpheus. 

Juan Pablo is a Chach, Neo.  Soon, you will believe.

We begin with the usual set up in St. Lucia, this year’s scene of the Final Selection.  Little did we know we would see the third woman this season making the biggest selection rather than our dopey, semi-literate Bachelor. 

Still delusional, Clare arrives in a strappy purple number to meet the Juan Pablos while Juan Pablo broods amongst the flora and fauna in turquoise dropping a familiar (and foreboding) sentiment that he “likes [Clare] a lot . . . physically.”  I could almost hear the collective sigh of the astute women in the bunch but it was drowned out by the collective awww of those of you who had not yet taken the red pill. 

Clare meets Juan Pablo’s family.  

Let’s see, there was his dad Saul Pablo, mom Nelly Pablo, brother Rodolfo Pablo, his cousin Rodrigo Pablo, and, of course, the adorable Camilla Pablo.  There were perhaps more Pablos running around, but I must have missed them.  Carla ex-Pablo apparently did not make the treep.  Eeees Ok.    

Clare makes a mistake off the bat.  First, she tells the family her mother is Mexican.  What’s the problem, you ask?  Well, there wouldn’t be one if the Juan Pablos were not an incredibly traditional Venezuelan family.  I’ve got news for you.  A large portion of South America views Mexico as a third world country and, by extension, looks down on its people. 

For those of you with South American blood reading this (including my mother-in-law’s family) you know what I’m talking about.  It’s a stereotype, yes, but the prejudice exists and it was palpable with Clare.  Frankly, the family seemed just as self interested as Juan Pablo.  She also admitted to never learning Spanish, another no no.     

Clare meets with Nelly Pablo and she tees up perhaps the most shocking aspect of the finale for me.  She leads into her description of her own son as “eeee-per-acteeve” (that’s "hyperactive" in case you missed the ABC subtitle) and then proceeds to tell Clare he’s an asshole.  That was the first Amazing thing I’d seen all season. 

THEN, the rest of the Pablos proceed to do the exact same thing.  Granted, they politely refer to Juan Pablo as “difficult” or “not easy” but the red flag couldn’t have been more obvious than if Saul Pablo himself ran up behind Nelly Pablo and set it En Fuego.  Clare wiggled in denial as we all yelled at our screens.   

“When I’m in love I’m 1000% sure that I’ll do anything at all,” she giggles.  Like what, Clare?  Wait outside his house, slit his tires, and burn his belongings if he leaves you?  It was at this point I began to feel bad for Clare.

It was so obvious how desperate she was, and, with the rest of the season’s “incidents” in context, it was pretty clear that she’d gone for broke.  It’s too bad she didn’t realize how broke she really was before the “incident” in the ocean.  I’ve knocked her around this season more than Juan Pablo knocked her around in the Fantasy Suite, but I’ve never said she’s not a nice person.  Catty?  Sure.  Desperate? Yes.  But not spiteful, insincere, or ill-meaning.       

Rodolfo Pablo—who sounded a lot like Inigo Montoya in Princess Bride—again confirms that Juan Pablo is “not easy.”  Look, even though I’m 100% sure that a person can’t 1000% anything, I was 1000% sure that this was going to end badly for someone. 

Nikki is up.  

Rodolfo Pablo ees soopur escited to meet Neekee.   She arrives in pink bearing gifts and wearing a bra this time.  After giving some canned answers to Saul Pablo, Saul Pablo says that Juan Pablo “thinks he knows the truth about everything.”  Wow.  Was it just me or could all of you also picture Andi’s father gloating into his giant triple scotch in his recliner in Atlanta?    

Allow me to cut to the chase on this one.  I know you’re all awaiting my “Nikki Theory.”  Before I do, let me also say that this entire episode should be shown to all single girls in America and should be dissected and analyzed to illustrate the classic mistakes made by women in relationships.  Sex in the City, Schmex in the City.  Like the Nikki choice, this was textbook.  More about that in a bit.   

Juan Pablo acts like Juan Pablo and says something disrespectful and filthy to Clare.  I’m certain he could have said the exact same disrespectful and filthy thing to her in the ocean five shows ago when she really barely knew him and it wouldn’t have mattered, but that’s neither here nor there. 

She’s more invested now and won’t put up with that sort of thing.  Sure, a surreptitous romp in the ocean while he’s still sucking the tongues out of the faces of 15 other women she calls friends (except the winner) is fine.  So is lying about it.  But after she sleeps with him a second time in the Fantasy Suite she deserves to be treated like a lady.  

Please.  What did she expect?  What did you expect?  

It’s too bad Andi had the wherewithal to leave early.  Maybe one of ABC’s lawyers could have explained the concept of precedent to Clare before the big finale.  I’m not discounting the fact that what he said was ill-timed, insensitive in light of her skewed version of things, and makes him a bigger idiot than I thought, but I found the indignant stance she took a bit delusional.  Clare made her own bed by jumping into his a couple of times; however, I’ll agree that he crossed the line. 

Lesson number one:  Ladies, don’t jump into the ocean, the bed, the back seat, or anywhere else with a man you hardly know and then expect him to respect you much less fall in love with you.  To put it as bluntly as I once told a former female roommate of mine with a penchant for sleeping around first and then wondering why the phone never rang:  Don't lead with the poon.  

If all you want is sex, fine.  Own it.  However, if you want a long-term relationship you can’t get laid on the foundation before laying the foundation.  Juan Pablo is simply an extreme illustration of what most men think when that sort of thing happens.  He’s not eeee-per-acteeve, he’s a eeee-per-bo-lee (that’s "hyperbole" in case you missed the subtitle). 

I, for one, was proud of Clare for attempting to draw a line in the sand after that little exchange, but horrified when she gave him the satisfaction of muchos besitos after he manipulated his way back in  to her good graces by using her dead father, his daughter, every vulnerable thing she shared with him, and capped it off by offering her marriage and children “within 2 months.” 

I don’t know what the gestation period is in Venezuela, but I’m 1000% certain it’s not two months.  If I recall correctly, a cat has about a two-month gestation period.  It’s not surprising that Juan Pablo was thinking about pussy at a time he should have been thinking about Clare’s feelings. 

Clare was so close to achieving more personal growth at that moment than she had in her first 32 years.  Unfortunately, she fell short.  Like in the Women Tell All, Juan Pablo begins to get a real taste of that happens when the accent and his bullshit get old.   I rolled my eyes into my last sip of Lone Star and hoped Clare would walk away with as little emotional damage as possible.      

Nikki goes bikini. 

“That’s what you call trying to win,” I said to Mrs. Some Guy.  “No shit,” was her response.  No shit indeed. 

They talk aboard “his” yacht and she fails to make the distinction between Juan Pablo being “guarded” vs. just being a shallow schmuck.  Apparently, the accent and the bullshit haven’t worn off with her yet.  Where was Harrison with his red pill? 

I was encouraged for a moment when she asked, “what happens when you don’t have private islands anymore?”  Exactly.  Unfortunately, it went nowhere.   

Again, these are two textbook cases of women in denial. 

• Both women watched as two of the smartest, most secure women in the house, Sharleen and Andi, intentionally removed themselves from the show because he was a jerk. 

• Both women watched as he took making out in front of the other women to an entirely new level, even for this show.

• Both women saw him dismiss the drunk Brazilian as she cried in the bathroom and leave for the mansion.  Granted, she was hammered, but a gentleman would have at least ensured she got home safely.

• Both women ignored the fact that he touted being a father as the most important thing in his life but sent Renee home--the most obvious choice to be a stepmother to Cameeeela and the only one who acted like one all season.

• Both women were repeatedly ignored, dismissed, or placated by him in the face of even the most basic questions and both women endured overtly sexual comments and gestures in front of the other women and in private in lieu of real conversation. 

He was neither charming, nor engaging.  He was dismissive, aloof, shallow, chauvinistic, and inappropriate.  He was a show off.   

YET, they both slept with him and both blew by every red flag draped at eye level across the intersection of Amazing Blvd. and Journey Ave.  They both surrendered their self-respect and their sense of decency in the face of their families’ advice and counsel in the name of being the last woman standing amongst the flora and fauna and presumptuously took for granted they’d be wearing the Neil Lane ring looking down at a guy neither of them really knew and, dare I say, REALLY liked.  They were just as naïve and ignorant as he was obnoxious and insincere.    

When there’s a sign in the road, Ladies, take the Rose Colored Glasses off, slow down, and take a moment to read it before heading over the cliff at the end of that road.  If you choose to ignore it, at least you’ve been warned.  

Rarely, if ever, have I had a visceral reaction to this show (well, if you exclude laughing hysterically while Jake ratted on Wes, cried on a balcony, got cheated on at his own cocktail party, cried about it, and then broke down in a fit of acrophobia on a date with Vienna and then cried about it despite being a pilot); however, I really found myself mad at all 3 of them.     

Final Send Off

Clare’s send off was Epic.  From the look of disgust to the double Heisman she hit him with when he went in for an assumptive goodbye hug all the way to the bra burning, I am Woman Hear me Roar speech she masterfully pulled off, it was pure Bachelor gold.  

Rage spawns irrationality but controlled anger is a pointy spear and Clare hit a bullseye just shy of an F Off.  Here’s some footage of her metamorphosis.

If ANY of you actually know Clare or someone who knows her, get this to her.

Open Letter to Clare. 

Dear Clare,

In that one moment when you found it within you to throw a double-fisted hug block into the chest of the opportunistic bonobo monkey in front of you, you took the red pill.  All of the garbage you spouted early in the season about being a strong woman who hasn’t found love or the right guy faded away like the dopey smile on Juan Pablo’s humiliated, sexist face when you let him have it. 

The only thing that all of your relationships have in common is you.  The only person who can fix you is not a misogynistic, disrespectful Neanderthal; it’s you.  Remember what that moment felt like and remember how different its aftermath felt after the crying stopped.  Remember that and you won’t fall for hair gel, soccer stories, poor English, or intentional stupidity again.  Congratulations, Clare. 

Love, Some Guy in Austin

P.S. (Please don’t do Bachelor Pad).

P.P.S. (If you know, please tell me what’s in that blue water you wash your combs in).

  

I’ll sum up Nikki’s choice as catastrophically blind and just leave it at that.  Feeling the pressure of St. Lucia and simply agreeing to agree is one thing but after watching the season she should have had more self respect than to keep her mouth completely shut even if she was contractually obligated to show up.  She’s intelligent, but she’s not smart and she looked incredibly foolish seeting there glued to Juan Pablo’s underarm like a sex toy while he refused to admit that he more than “liked her a lot” despite an avalanche of direct questions from Harrison.    

Buena Suerte con el pendejo, Neekee. 

Now, how did Some Guy “know” it was going to be Neekee from the beginning?  Here goes.

It was apparent to me from early on that Juan Pablo had a traditionally Latin view of women.  I have a couple of friends from South America and their families are extremely traditional.  Women listen to the men.  The man is the king of the house.  You know the drill.  My guess was that Juan Pablo was of that ilk.  That was a guess.  I also guessed that he was either a brunette guy or a blonde guy.  I picked blonde because Miami is filled with dark-headed Cubans and I thought he might like a change.  I was right about that too. 

I looked at the profiles and saw that Nikki had a stepmom-friendly career and assumed that the career would arouse his interest.  It did.  I also assumed that once he got a look at her in a cocktail dress and a bikini and realized she was 7 years younger than he was, she’d be in the final 3.  Men go younger.  It’s a fact.  Clare was his age and my other favorites were either brunette or older than Nikki.  Throw in a little luck and the fact that Juan Pablo theenks weeth his deek and boom, Some Guy is a Genius.  It’s that simple. 

It doesn’t hurt that—despite my MANY faults—I have the gift of empathy and find it very easy to get inside people’s heads.  I just dumbed myself down a bit, pretended I was a Venezuelan soccer player’s deek, and the answer hit me like two fists in the gut thrown by a disgruntled two-night stand.  

I realize that explanation is tantamount to Dorothy’s peek behind the curtain only to discover Wizard of Oz was really some short dude with a microphone, but (say it with me) I’m yust beeeing honest. 

Boom. 

Thank you all again for making this season a lot of fun for me.  Check back in every once in a while, would you?  I write for myself during the off-season, but I’ll post it anyway.  Take care of yourselves.  In the meantime, if you need me I’ll be wheespering filthy things into Mrs. Some Guy’s ear.  DP

 

Home.