Bachelorette
Oh, The Humanity!

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Ryan's Hope

We join Trista "Wherefore Art Thou Doing This To Thyself" Rehn standing alone on an upper balcony of the International House Of Guycakes (IHOG), blond hair billowing in the thick Encino smog, thinking about boys boys boys. Doubtlessly taking a break from her volunteer shift at the physical therapy ward of the onsite daycare facility ABC has constructed for its production staff in Guy's basement (psych! Crippled kids are for suckers), Trista takes the time to voice-over in a poorly edited cobble, "Three of my friends are coming today. And I really need their advice. I need some reassurance that the guys that I'm feeling the strong connections for are the right people." Knock knock! Who's there? Shameless opportunists! Shameless opportunists who? Shameless opportunists who are named Shannon from The Bachelor's first season, eager to capitalize on her C-list fame in any public forum available, and it was either this or a background casting gig in some freaky truck-stop sequence on The Surreal Life! Get it? God, I love a good knock-knock joke. Also along for the ride is Trista's friend Missy, about whom Trista lets us know: "Missy I have known since '95, so we've known each other...quite a while." Since all the way back before the advent of subtraction, evidently. Trista, as of the taping of this show, you've known her for seven years. Here's an abacus and a board with some felt duckies on it. Go learn one cohesive fact and let the editors lay off the futile "Make Sound Smart" button on the mixing console for a while. And who's named "Missy"? Also present is "Sara," whom Trista has "known since junior high." You mean "since Trista was in junior high and Sara was the kindly old guidance counselor or lunch lady," perhaps? She doesn't look aged, per se, but I doubt seriously the under-thirty-ness of anyone who would enter their local salon and advise her stylist, "Just give me the Life With Bonnie, thanks." Which Sara evidently has done. A flashback shot of Shannon not getting a rose from the ghoulish Alex Michel reminds us how much these strong women have changed since those simpler, more naïve times. This time around, for instance, Shannon seems to have acquired a clipboard. Woohoo! Sisters are doing paperwork for themselves!

Inside the house, the three imported friends sit shoulder to shoulder on a tiny, tiny couch while Trista luxuriates cross-legged and alone on The Sofa Of Get Your Own Damn Reality Show, Shannon. Trista claps her hands and proclaims herself "so happy" to have her friends along to help her, and Shannon leads the "ruzzah ruzzah" response with the slippery half-agreement that she's happy to be "here." Meaning "here in TV Land, on television, where people can see me and my stripy, stripy shirt. Hi, world!" In what was apparently a preordained plan, they immediately begin discussion of some "questions," and Shannon hands Trista a single sheet of paper, advising her, "Here. Look at the ones that are starred." Trista fills us in: "My friends have come up with questions for the guys based on who I am and what I really think is important in a relationship." Trista regards the "Is Your Future Husband 'Husbandy' Enough For You?" Cosmo quiz the three women have concocted, reading aloud, "Describe your demeanor in the morning." Missy also suggests including a battery of questions concerning "the longest relationship you've ever had. How it ended." Sigh. These are the starred ones? Judging from the comparative maturity level of this group of guys, I don't see how any questionnaire could omit key interrogatives like, "Seriously, how dumb are you really?" or "You're totally cheating on me already, aren't you, Russ?" or the simple yet revealing, "What's that smell?" But Shannon's got an ace in the hole, as she suggests with an overwhelmingly self-serious oh-my-god-you-guys- please-don't-be-scandalized demeanor, "For a funny question...to lighten it up...What size shoe do you wear?" They all giggle girlishly and nervously, flailing their arms aimlessly and not finding any pearls to clutch in the horror of their own yes-but-secretly- I'm-talking-about-his-PENIS subversion. Don't worry, little girls. It will all come out in the slam books.

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