Bachelor
Spy Vs. Not Spy

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Your Trish Your Trish Is On His List

The dripping-vines pretentiousness of the exterior of this season's Ladies Villa is a subtle though surefire indicator that if you're skanky enough to appear on the seventh season of The Bachelor, you really have earned your advanced degree in Ivy League Famewhoring. Inside the house, the dulcet tones of Chris "Is To Television Entertainment As Memorable Presidents Are To William Henry" Harrison bellows this week's opening shot up the stairs: "Ladies, if you would, come join me in the living room, please." The ladies come running, smelling the cameras and those cameras' consistent and strategic ability to point themselves in the direction of the implants at least twelve of these women paid so much money to showcase on television. Man, it's like being a really overbearing stage mother of twins! Maybe they can also smell some of Jesse's money, which perhaps rubbed off on their clothes and hair at last night's Rose Ceremony ("Hey, I'll bet it smells my money!"). Once collected downstairs on couches and divans and the odd ottoman, Chris asks the sixteen remaining women their thoughts on the house, a seemingly innocuous question that meets with thunderous, unabandoned, the-Sun-In-has- finally-seeped- into-their-brains applause. In: Faux-Spanish Southern California architecture. Five minutes ago: Silent appreciation of the inanimate. Out: Paying rent. Seemingly self-satisfied, Chris volleys, "Yeah, I thought you'd like it," while practically wiping his fingernails against his jacket in an effort to shake free the rest of the plaster and paint he used in apparently building the house entirely on his own. Chris then wastes no time before launching into the introductory stanza of his epic song-poem, a recitation known to scholars and aesthetes alike as "The Song Of Perpetual Last Season Sameness." Let us nod to its rhythm and consider how much more beautiful it could have been would someone have thought to accompany it with a lute: "This week, there will be two groups dates and one individual date. Now, Jesse did not know" -- and believe me, what Jesse doesn't know could fill the cavernous and empty black hole known as "his football team's win column -- "but when he handed out that First Impression Rose, he was giving Trish the first individual date." Oh, I have had it with the damn First Impression Rose already. It's such a dumb, myopic concession to the idea of change, when it doesn't do anything or change anything. If The Bachelor is the McDonald's of reality shows -- with its prepackaged sheen and its homogenous product and its ability to one day just absolutely fucking kill you -- then the First Impression rose is its Arch Deluxe.

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Bachelor

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