"Jesse Palmer really is the perfect Bachelor," Chris voices over a shot of Jesse throwing rose petals at the camera. Remember when Meredith did that in her promo and we reality-television scholars interpreted it as Meredith using her flowery, feminine wiles in order to snag herself a man? Why, then, is Jesse doing it? Is this his subtle way of trying to tell his teammates in the gentlest way possible that he is, in fact, a promosexual? Har har har. "He's handsome, smart, rich, and successful!" What he's saying is that he admires Jesse's commitment to community service. Just kidding. Actually, Chris is in loooooooooooove. With the sound of his own droning voice. But who is Jesse Palmer, really? According to Chris's not-too-fine a point, Jesse is "everything that every woman is looking for!" He actually says that in all of its damning totality. So, like...not to speak for 51% of the planet's population or anything? But Jesse Palmer is everything. That every woman. Is looking for. Ever. This means you, Golda Meir. ["Even Melissa Etheridge?" -- Wing Chun] This means all of you. ["Oh." -- Wing Chun]
A shot of the exterior of Giants Stadium inspires in me the same strong emotions that it does in all tri-state area dwellers: the pissed-off feeling of not being able to get to your cousin's house for the family barbecue because that damned stadium was built literally in the middle of the base of a main highway. We cut inside the stadium to find Jesse completely alone, running around the perimeter of the field while the real team is off in Green Bay actually playing in a game. But Jesse runs and runs. Holy crap! That thing must be as long as, like, ten football fields! Nah. Maybe just a little bit shorter. Jesse is twenty-five years old, we learn now, which means he's younger than I am, which I find almost impossible considering my youthful good looks and lack of similar income. Maybe what they meant is that he was stitched together and brought to god-defying, mutant life by the deranged Dr. Frankenstein twenty-five years ago. Come on. His brow is kind of monster-y. Admit it so we can marry.
We go on to learn that Jesse grew up on Ontario, which I'm told is in the "Canada" section of America. He's the oldest of three sons, from a mother who worked as a model (though the first nine times through I thought her name was "Susan Amodel" rather than "Susan, a model") and a football-playing, gay-porn-star -- people, gaze upon the wonder this is Mr. Palmer's stache -- father. Who played in "the Canadian Football League." Oh, that is adorable! Almost just like real football! A photojournal of Jesse's father shows photographs of him in uniform, taking his son to practice, on a boat, young and old. And in every photograph over what is probably a thirty-year span of time -- every photograph -- the man sports the same killer moustache. It's so garish as to be almost a thing of wonder. Split in the middle and then cascading down each lip like it's trying to run off his face and join a Village People revival band. Like it could be pulled off in a clean swipe with a single tug. Like it hasn't ever been in a '70s gay porno but "has a lot of friends in that community." It's a stache in search of a personality big enough to carry it. Truly, it can use its own reality show. Jesse, in a football uniform from his youngest days, is driven to practice by the stache. Jesse wins a scholarship to the University of Florida and becomes the starting quarterback. The Stache has its own mistakes in life vicariously corrected through the next generation. And The Stache said, "This is good. This is very good."