|Uhhh, Ben? Your driftwood is about to pierce my chest cavity.|
The most difficult thing to do in this world is carry dry cleaning. There's no easy way to do it. You start by holding the hangers with two fingers, over the shoulder, Giorgio Armani style. This inevitably leads to both finger and elbow pain, so then you switch fingers, hands and/or shoulders, which just causes symmetrical pain, until you decide to drape the clothes across your forearms, which is even more difficult, because all dry cleaning is wrapped in the slipperiest plastic imaginable, and at this point your forearms are sweating profusely, so the clothes constantly slide off your arms, leaving you with shirts even more wrinkled than when you first dropped them off.
THE SECOND MOST DIFFICULT thing to do in this world is watch The Bachelorette Finale - this year's being especially trying because the guy who lost was REALLY in love. It was so painful to watch Ben get down on one knee and propose to a lady who had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA how to break up with a dude proposing to a lady on national television. How did she let him do that?!?! Ashley allowed Ben to deliver his whole speech - WHICH WAS MUCH BETTER THAN JP's BY THE WAY! - making it much more uncomfortable that it had to be. That scene left me mentally defeated, until I realized that Ben's much better off without Ashley, and is now free to sleep with literally GRILLIONS of women.
|Interesting technique, Miley.|
So why the freak do we watch The Bachelorette? Why subject ourselves to a finale where we have to witness a human being completely crush another human being (and the one getting crushed is NOT Troy Aikman)?
We like a little bit of pain.
Think about it ... hot sauce ... hair pulling / ass slapping ... middle school.
The entire process is painful; we meet all sorts of interesting folks (the Italians call it "Sprezzatura"), weed out the annoying ones (You mean you don't wanna meet my family?), and all so we can watch people have the sexy times at the end. That's the payoff! - which is actually very similar to middle school. I'm not sure what the payoff for having clean, well-pressed clothes is ... what a racket.
At some point in our lifetimes, we're totally going to be able to watch people have sexy times on The Bachelorette. We're already pretty close, as evidenced by Ben and Ashley's mud bath where Ashley rubbed mud all over her own titties. And not just on her own titties, but the inside of her titties! And I don't mean the actual inside, because there's no way that she could rub her actual inner tit, I just mean the part of the tit that's inside the bra. You know, the white part. This of course led to a very brief (but EE-ROT-ICK) dry humping in Ben's room, which made me realize that I don't think I've ever actually seen anyone dry hump before. I mean, I've dry humped, I used to love dry humping (I might still love dry humping), but I don't know if I've ever actually witnessed a dude - who was totally serious - try to grind his dork through a woman's shorts. Which is really incredible cause I've seen NUMEROUS ball-gags, emergency cable TV repairs, milk baths, after-school detentions, Moroccan gang-bangs, but never a dry humping!! Wow, who knew?
|If you just stare at this lady's thigh, JUST HER THIGH, it's so freaky.|
I really wanted Deputy Dry Humper to dry hump the shit out of Ashley, because he genuinely seemed to love her. Over the past month, Ben has been so calm, so happy, so ready to just dry hump. In every interview he kept saying how at peace he was, how confident he felt. I imagine that's exactly what being on opium is like.
OKAY, HOLY FUCK!! I AM CURRENTLY WRITING THIS POST AT 8:31 ON TUESDAY NIGHT, AND A MOTHERFUCKING BIRD (MAYBE A BAT? PROBABLY A BAT) JUST FUCKING FLEW THREW MY DINING ROOM!
IT WAS FUCKING CRAZY!
I don't know how the fuck that bird (bat, right? had to be a bat!) got in my house, but after it flew by my fucking head, I grabbed a broom and pretty much ducked down in the corner and kept saying, "HOLY FUCK" which coincidentally is the exact same quote my wife kept repeating when I proposed to her. Anyway, after my Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragonballs routine, I opened the back screen and the front door, but never saw that motherfucker fly out. He may still be in the house! So here's the million dollar question, when my wife returns from Zumba in 25 minutes, do I tell her a motherfucking bat just flew by my head (AND MAY BE UPSTAIRS AS WE SPEAK!) or do I pretend it's just a normal Tuesday in TVMWW headquarters?!?!
A few hours later ...
OKAY, IT'S NOW 12:03 am - and major developments have transpired with me and the bat. After settling down and grabbing a snack, the little guy ZIPPED BACK IN THE DINING ROOM and flew right in front of my fucking face, so I grabbed the broom and ducked down (possibly threw my back out) and eventually found the bat chilling in the corner of our kitchen.
So I slowly (and I mean slowwwwwly) creeped up on him, with my broom held up like a Duke lacrosse player, and that dude just chilled there, totally still. I wasn't even sure if it was the bat, because he didn't look like a bat, he looked like one of those square dishes of pudding that come in TV dinners (which are AMAZING by the way). As I inched closer, with the bristles of the broom almost tickling his body, I thought for sure that the little motherfucker would burst out of his bat curl and fly right into my fucking face.
I jabbed him with the broom and he fell to the floor - well, not the floor, but onto a chair that was directly underneath him - but the chair had a bag on it, so I wasn't sure if he fell into the bag, or behind the chair. I heard him chirping a bit (do bats chirp? this dude was straight chirping), so I pulled the chair away and the dude dropped, but now I wasn't sure if he fell onto the floor or into the recycling bin. There was definitely some squirming going on too, and I figured, "Eh, recycling is tomorrow, I might as well pull a double-dipper and take the plastic bottles out AND get this bat outta here," so I carried the blue bin outside, until I realized he wasn't in there. So I put the bin down and hurried back to the kitchen and found him there, squirming on the floor. With a few more jabs, I caught him with my broom and essentially swept him out of the kitchen, onto our back patio and Mario Lemieux'ed that dude into our backyard.
|I def prefer bathtime to Batman.|
I closed the front and back doors, got myself a glass of water and calmed the freak down. I felt pretty good about myself. Here I was, a Jewish dude with no prior bat experience, and I was able to jab that motherfucker with a shafty-ass broom and sweep him back into nature without killing him (although I'm pretty sure he was injured and probably eaten by any number of the neighborhood cats). Even though our kitchen was littered with broom bristles and my wife was due home in any moment, my back was now THROBBING (I gotta do more stretching!), so I decided to head upstairs to get some motherfucking Advil.
No big deal, right? Just head upstairs, grab a few pills, slurp 'em down and then WAMMO!
ANOTHER MOTHERFUCKING BAT FLEW RIGHT AT MY FACE!
I ducked like Don Flamenco (might've screamed like a girl), and saw the bat fly out of the bathroom and into our guest bedroom. I ran over, saw that dude buzzing around and SLAMMED the door shut, locking that guy in there.
BRILLIANT MOVE, RIGHT?
|This guy could duck and move with the best of 'em.|
Now I knew where that dude was, and even though I had a house infested with motherfucking bats, at least I could breathe for a second and find some God damn Advil. Eventually, I did, and when my wife came home I explained what happened, and after doing some research on bats, we learned that you should NEVER jab a bat. So we called the Delaware County Animal Control people and they told us they'd have someone at the house within the hour.
Now, I'm sure everyone at the Delco Animal Control center are reputable, but in looking at their staff pictures, both my wife and I had a very clear idea of who we wanted to come over to our house.
My wife wanted this dude.
I wanted this guy.
|Stache perfectly matches his walkie-talkie.|
This is who they sent us.
|Loves dogs AND calf tattoos!|
No disrespect, but she spent an hour in our house, twenty minutes in the room with the bat, AND COULDN'T FIND THE BAT. The good news was, she didn't think our house had a bat infestation, but rather a hole somewhere where bats were slipping in. She thought the bat was probably hiding in a wall somewhere, or escaped out, but to call her if we saw the bat again (OH, THAT'S REASSURING).
So Darrie and I went upstairs (COMPLETELY ZORPED OUT at this point), brushed our teeth and got ready for bed and then
A bat (coulda been the same bat? maybe a different bat?) flew right at her motherfucking face! My wife screamed, totally broke our towel rack and darted into the bedroom while I ran downstairs to find the bat.
Now armed with A TOWEL, I watched that dude race around our living room for 20 minutes like Dale Earnhardt Joons, taunting me with every lap. I called the lady back, and after another 20 minutes of thinking about throwing a towel at him, she arrived and caught that dude with a fishing net!
Two bats. One swept into the backyard. The other put in a container of Tupperware. Or, maybe three bats? Is there one still in our other bedroom? And, are there more bats? And if so, can I please get some opium?!?!
|Isn't there a popular TV show to discuss?|
I'll tell ya who needs some opium ... Ashley's sister! That lady is so bossy! So angry! So hot!
Tattooed Sister: What's wrong with you, JP? Why aren't you married yet?
JP: What? I dunno, I just ...
Tattooed Sister: ... slaps JP across the face ... Look at me when I'm talking to you! Are you a real man?
JP: I guess so ...
Tattooed Sister: Ever killed a bat?
JP: No, I haven't .. head falls in shame.
Granted, as much as a B as Ashley's sister was, I did pretty much agree with all of her points. JP is a weeny and their relationship is based solely on a nice smile and passionate kissing. Also, both JP and Ashley are totally unstable. I really wanted Ashley to end up picking Ben just so we could see JP travel to Maine, kill Ashley's sister, stop for a lobster roll (those things are fantastic!) and then drive his car - Thelma and Louise style - into the Atlantic Ocean.
|Chest like a God damn steamroller.|
The dude Ashley shoulda picked was Neil Lane - the jeweler - an absolute jackhammer who could probably kill a bat while eating a baked potato. That guy is pure manimal. It's ridiculous that ABC failed to show any footage from the lobby of the Fiji hotel where both Neil Lane and Ashley's family were staying.
Neil Lane: Hey Kid, who's the dame?
Elliot (Ashley's brother): What?
Neil Lane: The lady, Kid! The lady with all them tattoos! Who is she?
Elliot: Oh, that's my sister.
Neil Lane: Your sister?!?! ... slaps Elliot across the face ... God dammit, Kid, you can't let your sister walk around like that!
Elliot: stunned from the slap ... I, I, I, I can't?
Neil Lane: No. Cause guys like me will have sex with her. I'm gonna have sex with her, Kid. You ever had sex, kid?
Elliot: Yeah, once.
Neil Lane: slaps Elliot across the face again ... Don't lie to me, Kid!
Elliot: I'm sorry ... crying a little.
Neil Lane: You know why you never got laid, Kid? Cause you don't wear a watch. Look at these beauties.
Neil Lane pulls out a briefcase full of watches.
Elliot: But I don't need a watch. My cellphone tells time.
Neil Lane: Shut the hell up, Kid! ... SHUT ... THE HELL ... UP! Ya see that lady over there? The Chinese one?
Neil Lane: I had sex with her last night. You know why I had sex with her?
Elliot: now shivering ... Uhh, uhh, cause you wear a watch?
Neil Lane: No. Cause I paid her. That's a God damn prostitute kid. A God damn prostitute. Real men sometimes have to pay for sex. Now gimme 20 bucks and I'll show you how to eat a baked potato.
|Webcam pics add an extra 50% of erotica. FACT.|
I think after three months of watching The Bachelorette, it's clear that the two people we want to see have sex are Neil Lane and Ashley's tatted-up, nosey, bitch of a sister. I imagine he's exactly what she needs in a man and she's exactly what he needs on a Tuesday. Plus, considering she wears those tight, white pants that stain very easily, she could benefit from his various Los Angeles connections - specifically those in the dry cleaning biz. In fact, I'm guessing that Neil Lane probably doesn't even have to pick up his own dry cleaning. He probably gets it delivered.
Wait a minute, why isn't there a dry cleaning delivery service? That would make mills.
|Do ya, though? Do ya?|
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