Or, not. Chris walks away from the pool and up a flight of steps, backstorying in such a BOCES educational filmstrip kind of way that I instinctively look around for the button to push on the slide projector when Chris pauses again and we hear that little "beep" sound indicating it's time to go to the next slide. "When Trista had her heart broken by our first bachelor, men across the country went nuts." Chris is so disgusted with Bachelor #1 that he can't even say his name out loud. I'll bet he even spells it "Al-x" when forced to write it longhand. "We received thousands of phone calls, letters, and applications from guys across the country who wanted a shot with the beautiful blonde they fell in love with on TV." What Chris fails to note is that at least 60% of those letters, once opened, were found to have ended, "...and those are the reasons I don't think you should cancel Firefly," and that they were misaddressed or sorted incorrectly by the TV Land mailroom. Not to mention the fact that it sounds from Chris's congressional filibuster like people started to send in these aforementioned "applications" back when Trista's heart was broken by the first bachelor, which was, like, two years ago. ["Two years, seven months; same difference." -- Wing Chun] What were they sending in applications for? Ukrainian citizenship? Membership to Price Club? E-Z Pass? Pay attention, copywriters. That is lazy, lazy, lazy.
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.