The ladies agree, and they'll stretch the metaphor far enough to agree that if The Bachelor is McDonald's and First Impression rose is the Arch Deluxe, Trish is the roach eggs found in the urban myth about the special sauce. Except Trish's eggs are real, they've hatched, their hair got caught in a windstorm, and they're hookers. And thus the metaphor became so strained it found it could never walk again.
"I'm a pretty good judge of character," Suzie the prosthetic technician tells us of Trish, clearly willing to point plastic fingers at those less qualified to love. "Something's definitely off about her." She's just jealous that Trish has a leg up! She wants to tear her limb from limb! She just doesn't want to share her new boyfriend with just an-knee-one. That's right! The genre is "Prosthetic Technician Jokes," and I've got a million of 'em! Say, boys, why did the bumbling prosthetic technician get fired for treating the crippled dancer? Because she accidentally gave him two left feet! Rimshot!
"As for the details about all the dates, you will find out as your Date Boxes arrive," Chris continues, utilizing the USDA maximum number of words allowed in the universe to convey no actual information at all. "All the dates"? All two of them. "And your first one has just arrived outside!" The women erupt into fresh seal-with-fish-level gales of clappiness, as something called "Mandy" is dispatched to retrieve the parcel from the front porch. She returns a convenient cut (or, as it's known in real time, three hours) later, placing a rather enormous box -- it must be filled with all the words Jesse doesn't know -- on a table. It seems to be wrapped entirely in white fur, as if the poachers were all, "Oh, quit your complaining...most pandas never even get to see California" before pulling the trigger. What's in it? What's in it? First, Chris has to take his leave. Oh. Didn't realize you were still standing there. "Enjoy the dates, enjoy the week and I will see you at the next Rose Ceremony," he advises, parting to deafening exit applause. Because, as we've discovered, these chicks give it up for inanimate objects.
Oh, look! It's an adorable orphan in swaddling clothes! Tell the minister! Actually, from the scream that erupts from around the box when it's opened, you'd think it was something as good as the briefcase in Pulp Fiction or as bad as the box from Se7en. Suzie grabs (so nimble! Where does she get it? From DuPont) the note first, launching in: "Mandy J., Celeste, Jessica B., Julie, Tara, Karen, and Katie" -- oh, my god, they all have exactly the same name -- "Today we'll spread our" -- tee hee! -- "wings and fly to a winter wonderland." Oh, god. The winter wonderland doesn't need this, especially during this time of year when people aren't always around, mucking it up with the sleigh bells and the flat harmonies. It's the Spring. Those people just want to be left alone. Oy. I can already picture the limo pulling up to find Parson Brown sitting on his porch with a cocked shotgun and seven girls in its sight, muttering, "Bitches? Get off-a my land." It's a much tougher neighborhood than the song makes it sound. The note's not even over: "I'll see you soon. XOXO, Jesse." The women squeal again in Jesse-loving glee, but they should really be sighing for the production assistant who wrote that note. The only thing Jesse contributed was one capital "X," and he wrote that because it's what he always puts down when someone asks him to sign his name.