Inside the house we go. And...well, nothing says "testosterone-drenched catfighting" quite like purple throw pillows and satin blackout curtains. Oh, no. I'm sorry. I actually meant that nothing says "Gus Van Sant's shot-by-shot remake of Love! Valor! Compassion!" quite like purple throw pillows and satin blackout curtains. Unless that candle-festooned Stickley side table has the Gobots-esque ability to convert itself into something a bit more foosball-related, I can't imagine twenty-five (allegedly) straight men living here for any stretch of time without the competitive spirit being interior-designed right out of them.
Chris wanders through an open sliding glass door. Too bad someone just left that thing open, or else we might be treated to a snatch of Barbra's impassioned version of "Don't Rain On My Parade" when Chris rang the novelty doorbell that would doubtlessly play such a show tune. "Now, granted," Chris vamps, because Trista is taking so long in the bathroom just like a girl, "you usually don't hear of men lining up to get married. But these guys are all here because of their romantic feelings for Trista. Each of them hoping, several weeks from now, they might be the last man standing and Trista might become their [sic] wife." We learn that we'll be meeting the bachelors at a time called "later this evening," but first we have to go deeper into flashback mode and "get reacquainted with America's first bachelorette." Back in voice-over heaven now, Chris patronizes, "You probably remember Trista as the girl Alex didn't pick at the end of our initial season of The Bachelor." Actually, I do not, since that was back in the day when I maintained a vague political ideology as well as a vague adherence to scripted television. We watch Alex give Trista her walking papers and Trista crying in the limo that her "life will go on." Groovy.
Cut to yet another montage of Trista, and this time she's described, Mad Libs-style, as "gorgeous," "sexy," and "Miami Heat dancer." Hee. It's brilliant that those are the three descriptive adjectives that are supposed to give us a cumulative personality composite of Trista Rehn. What a coincidence that I was totally going to put her name in the blank for "Name of Miami Heat Dancer In Room" in the Mad Libs entitled "My Trip to the Basketball Game." We cut to an interview with Trista's mother, Roseanne, telling us that she gives Trista "a lot of credit for believing in herself." Comprehensive profile interviews with the parents, now? What is this, PBS Presents Ken Burns's The Bachelorette? Can we get to the shirtless-men-tussling portion of the show I've been promised in the promos already? Shut up, Trista's mom. This show is supposed to be young and sexy and fast and dirty and maybe a little shameful, and at no point should I feel compelled to describe anyone's physical characteristics as being "understudying for the role of Diane Keaton's glasses." So shut up, Trista's mom. As a photo collection of Trista's childhood unfolds that would be best accompanied by Paul Anka's "The Times of Your Life" and the title card "The Official Trista Rehn Bat Mitzvah Video," we now hear from Trista's dad, Stan, that "she was a member of the pom squad." Well, she's totally three-dimensional now. This helpful clip package will ensure that all of us will remember her as a fully actualized human being, rather than just another set of gams. And we know she's smart, too, because she got a Master's Degree while wearing her mom's Diane Keaton glasses. Also, she works with children. She got involved with children's medicine because she likes children and she also likes medicine. Thank god this clip package showed up when it did.