Reborn on the Bayou

When a reality show about a man trying to date multiple women he met several weeks ago in the hopes of marrying one of them seems more rational than the state of the American government, it’s clear that we are living in strange and dangerous times. In comparison to everything that has transpired in the past ninety-six hours, the events of The Bachelor were not only pedestrian, they were downright uninteresting. Remember when the worst thing the Big Orange Baby did was try to bust up Obamacare? Those were the halcyon days.

Speaking of halcyon days, I never thought I’d be longing for the age of Chad and Alex, back when palpable conflict actually resulted in watchable television. It’s been said that prayer is the last refuge of scoundrels, but whoever coined that phrase never met a reality TV producer. The poor suckers in charge of this season were so desperate they ran straight from the pew into the arms of the supernatural, tarot card readers, and voodoo priestess – and even that barely raised a “meh” on the interest scale. It’s their own fault, though; the best they could come up with in terms of activities in the Crescent City was a daytime date limited to the French Quarter? At least take the ladies out to Bywater for a slice at Pizza Delicious, for Christ’s sake.

Outside of the production team completely mishandling the location choice and Chris Harrison dressing like he’s cruising for cocktail waitresses at Harrah’s, the whole episode was pretty bland fare. Rachel continued her climb to front-runner status, along with Vanessa and Danielle M. who, though last seen in a bonding embrace, will likely be turning on the waterworks in the not-so distant future. As always – and thankfully so – Alexis maintained her stranglehold on the closing credits.

But this is all dancing around the one question anyone cares about this week: and no, it ain’t “Will we see the mysterious boat driver again?” (God I hope so), but “Who actually won the two-on-one?”

Look, I understand those of you who are going to argue that the rose confers status and that the issuing of it signals the end of the date, but we’re so far off the goddamn rails we might as well be flying. We’re expected to believe that the cameras stayed rolling on Taylor just because? That the voodoo cabal stuck around the middle of the swamp because they were going to anyways? And that the PAs weren’t originally going to give Taylor a ride directly to Nick and Corinne’s location, but watched her get doused with knock-off holy water and thought, “Wow, that’s super compelling. We should totally break with protocol and take her to where the date is happening right now so she can interrupt it”?

There’s a lot to be cynical about these days, but I’ve never appreciated having my leg pissed on only to be told it’s raining. To add injury to insult, we even got told that the end game of this charade is both girls getting sent home. Unbelievable. I’d call Chris Harrison to gripe about it if I wasn’t convinced he was still working a heater at Harrah’s. The man knows his way around a card table and continues to display zero interest in occupying the same room as Nick.

So those’re the breaks: you win the date by actually making it back to the mansion or hotel or yurt or wherever it is you unpack your belongings to cat-fight another day. In this case, both girls will be wheeling their luggage home – and good riddance. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer pair of gals. And if you thought it was going to go any other way then you deserve to be separated from your money.

Next week the board’ll actually go up – and not a moment too soon. I’ll be back on the sauce, meaning I’ll need something to keep me out of trouble.

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