|RIP you goddamn angel.|
All year long, Harrison told us this was the most dramatic season ever. Week in and week out, he stood up there with THE SAME BORING HAIRCUT and delivered this message over and over and over again. We waited, and we watched, and we watched and waited some more, and we left comments on our favorite blog sites, and we even read our favorite blogger's sports blog even though we're not really that into sports -- I mean, sure, yeah, we'll watch it from time to time and March Madness is always cool and the Olympics, sure, love that, love all that, but whatever, we wanted to support him and increase his pageviews because maybe then he could quit his day job and pursue his dream of writing for Matt Lauer and The Today Show -- but then as Chris the Farmer sent Becca home last night, we realized Harrison was right all along. This was the most bonkers season of the Bach ever. Because how the hell did that lady last soooooooooooooooo freakingggggggg longggggggg?
Yo, that lady was so boring and such a virgin and spoke with such a flat affect. She brought nothing to the table -- NUH-THING -- but yet she had us wondering if he might pick her to the very, very end. Even Chris (the farmer, not the aforementioned lame-o hairstyle guy) described Becca to his sisters as, "athletic, and I dunno, also very grounded," two things every man looks for in a spouse/doubles partner. Although now that I think about it, I guess I now understand why the Bach producers didn't pick Serena Williams for this show, because that lady is outta control! And sure, Susan Sarandon is down-to-earth and all, but an absolutely terrible swimmer. Great job Bach producers! You found Chris's (almost) ultimate dream woman! I hope one day she comes out of that coma!
Becca was so emotionally unavailable. Just completely and totally incapable of having a romantic connection with anyone. I mean honestly, what the fuck did this guy see in her? WHAT DID WE SEE IN HER? HOW DID WE THINK FOR A SECOND THAT HE MIGHT PICK HER? When she was sent home, nothin. No reactsh. Could not have cared less. Chris might as well have said, "Hey Becks, sorry but they were out of the 2% greek yoges at the store. I had to get the 0%. Hope that's okay." And I'm not saying that's wrong, I'm just saying that I now totally understand why she's a virgj. I think she might've been molested as a child. That's my hypothesis. I'm not saying it's right, nor am I saying that it's appropriate for a world famous internet celebrity to throw such a dumbfounded unsubstantiated theory out to his literally millions of readers, but there is something about this woman's past that keeps her from having any sort of elevated human emotion (or a penis inside her vagina).
|Vagina could not be drier.|
Of course Chris chose Whitney! OF COURSE HE DID. She's wifey material. She's annoying as fuck, but will totally make her huzz an egg salad sandwich after he tweaks his back shoveling and needs something, anything, in his system. Frankly, I don't know how Chris is gonna deal with all of Whitney's "I love you" bullshit, but she seems fertile, so that's nice for her.
When they were rolling around on his stupid fucking tractor and Whitney was like, "I LOVE THIS SHIT! IS THIS FUCKING CORN? I LITERALLY OVULATE THREE WEEKS OUT OF EVERY MONTH," ugh, of course you do. Everything is exciting when you're first in love. My wife pretended to enjoy NBA basketball for the first six years we were together. And then one day, BLAMMO, she grabbed the remote and flipped over to some new channel called Bravo, and this blog was born (and the man inside me died). Chris could've done anything with Whitney and she would've loved it. That's why love is so stupes!
CHRIS: Hey Whit, check it out, this is where we harvest our oats.
WHIT: Wowwwwwww. There's so many oats!
CHRIS: I know! And this is where we flarv the durbage.
WHIT: Oooooohhhhhhhhh, is that where you flarv? I didn't know you could flarv stuff at this time of year.
CHRIS: Yeah. And this is where I kill the black children. Not all of them. I don't kill all of them. Just some. And then I make the others watch their friends get murdered.
WHIT: Do you?! That's awesommmmmme. That's just awesome. Thank you so much for sharing this with me. It really means a lot to me that you'd show me where you murder black children. Can I call your mom "Mimi"?
So now what?
Well, I guess these two will go off and have sex, and Chris will try to shoot his sperm as deep as he possibly can inside this woman's ovaries (?), and eventually it'll stick, and Whitney will gain weight, and flip out about stuff, and Chris will have to go out late at night to get her a Chunky bar because for some reason she needs a Chunky bar, not a Snickers bar, not a Baby Ruth, not even a 100 Grand even though they're so caramelly, no, a Chunky, and then eventually Chris will jerk off thinking about some woman whose hair he smelled while standing in line at the post office and then both of them will die.
Enjoy married life, you two.
The real drama is just beginning.
Ugh what a stupid ending to this blogpost. So cliché.
Fuck you, I'm out.
Hey all you Philly cats (and other people), I watched an amazing doc this weekend about the MOVE bombing. Check it out, it's called "Let the Fire Burn" and it's bonks. They only use old news footage and trial footage to tell the story and it's friggin fascinating. It's on Netflix. Also, Mad Men and Game of Frones start up in a few weeks so I'll probably be blogging about that stuff soon. Or I might just take this blog down and jam a bomb inside my own asshole. Peace.