|Ugh, I'm sorry, buddy. |
I truly, truly am.
At first glance, this season of the Bach seems the same as all the others.
The Bachelorette is completely mole-less.
There are three different guys named Clift.
And last night, while a white person told a heartbreaking story about accidentally finding out that his ex-girlfriend was planning on breaking up with him, I ripped a fart so loudly that my cat Frank jumped up, hid under the couch and missed the entire cocktail party AND rose ceremony.
But (and that's the key word here: but) (in fact, that's always the key word) (because in the history of words, the only word that has ever truly mattered is but) (well, and butt) (because you should never pay attention to anything anyone ever says before they say the word but) (because after they say the word but, then they get to what they REALLY want to talk about) (sooooooo, but), this year, there is also this guy:
|Is that a soprano saxophone in your pocket or |
is that four soprano saxophones in your pocket?
Forget about the fact that he's a stunt man.
Forget about the fact that there's an 83% chance that I subscribe to his PornHub channel.
Forget about the fact that this past year he averaged a career high in points, rebounds and field goal percentage for the Oklahoma City Thunder.
Look. At that. Hair.
Can you imagine?
Can you imagine ever—and I mean ever—going on a date, or engaging in a conversation, or running a high pick and roll with a man who looked like THAT?
Because I can't.
I don't know how anyone could.
But the thing is, the thing that is more mind-blowing than any sort of small land animal that might live in his hair, is that he seems like a pretty nice guy! And is far from the most ridiculous human being on the show.
Because there's also a guy with a lisp.
A black man who CRIED.
And this guy...
... who literally got no airtime. None. Zero. A massive mistake on the part of the producers, who chose to show us a best of three dodgeball match instead of one—and I mean one—30-second clip of this man pouring essential oils into a diffuser.
Also, can we pause for a second?
Does it blow your mind that these people have the conversations that they have? Like, about anything? Like, "Hi, we've known each other for nine minutes, are you thinking private school for our kids orrrrrrrr..."
Do you ever have serious conversations with people? Because I don't. And I don't know any people who do. At least not any that don't end with one person saying, "Okay, I have to go take a shit," because those are the only types of conversations I'm interested in having. The kinds where one person tells the other person that they can no longer talk to them, because shit is about to explode out of their ass.
Back to this post that has no coherent theme or message or reason for being written—let's finish it off with this:
The Evster's Sex Tip of the Week Despite the Fact that I Haven't Frenched Kissed My Wife with Actual Tongue in Over Three Years
So last night, this guy posted up Becca for the old Winnepeg Wall-Banger, one of the all-time classic moves in Bachelor/Bachelorette history.
|No idea what's up with this picture quality.|
It looks like a goddamn Impressionist painting.
But notice his right hand.
He's got it slapped up against the wall like he's pissing into a urinal on the New Jersey Turnpike when clearly he should have grabbed her left wrist, held it above her head, then taken her other hand and pressed her wrists together, while switching over to hold her wrists with his left hand, and then slid his right hand back down her mole-less bod, before grabbing her underneath her left thigh, pulling her leg around him, putting himself in the Cincinnati Clamper, before whispering in her ear, "Just so you know, I've seen at least four episodes of My So Called Life."
Her panties would have immediately exploded—and he would've guaranteed himself a spot in the Final Three.
Okay, that's enough blogging for one week/the rest of my life.
I hate you all!