Props to Sars. Damn good show, bosslady.
"Ladies, if you would, come join me in the living room, please," calls an enthusiastic Chris "Holy Holy Holy He's A Boring Host" Harrison while we are treated to an establishing shot of The Malibu Barbies' Dream House (y'all, it's even in Malibu). The fifteen remaining contestants come a-running into the room, stop short with a collective look of "oh, sorry, we heard a male voice calling us and we just assumed the voice was made of cash," and continue in anyway because, well, this room has rolling cameras in it! Today, Chris is wearing a rugged, outdoorsy, short-sleeved blue button-down, causing brand confusion between him and every other reality-show host ever, while insuring the continuing bland Probstification of the lot of them continues unchecked. The only difference between those two at this point is that Chris's luxury item is actual luxury. Chris indicates the women's plush surroundings and asks the ladies what they think of the house, doing so with such a self-satisfied air you'd think he built it using his own hands, and the ladies coo and applaud with such a self-conscious obsequiousness that you'd think he built it using his own money. I've got your numbers now, you crazy, crazy, magnificent, gold-digging bastards, you. Chris launches right into the plot of tonight's episode: "Andrew has planned some exciting, romantic fantasy dates." Oh, he's planned them, has he? I'm sorry, but I was under the impression that when people planned dates, it involved, like, calling a restaurant, making a reservation, arranging to pick the other person up. You know, the "planning" part of the planning. Andrew has taken care of the part of the evening that includes the following: "Act humble, tousle hair fashionably, buy shoes no one but me can afford, add Dr. Scholl's Short-B-Gone lifts to shoes no one but me can afford, call Daddy and publicist from the limo to tell him it's about the wine and not the tires, and show up." But the "plans"? A little bit more of a stretch, is what I'm saying.
Chris adds that the girls will be going on individual dates with Andrew "later on in this process" (not so fast, Shannon), but for now, they'll be going out in group dates of five. Which, truth be told, pretty much eliminates the word "romantic" from Chris's earlier speech, right along with the aforementioned "planning." Way to shoot from the hip, Chris. Anyway, he concludes with great mystery, "I think someone's left you a present out on the porch." And if I didn't know any better, I would say that the terminology of "a present out on the porch" connotes less a surprise of the "exciting" and "romantic" variety, and more of the "deposited by that strange dog that inexplicably lived in the house during last season of The Bachelorette" kind. Chris calls upon Elizabeth to go fetch the box, perhaps thinking of what must be her innate, caring-for-animals goodwill based on the matronly, ye olde weddyng dress she wore at her mom's house back in the season premiere. Elizabeth -- not a blonde and therefore finally beginning to individuate herself -- leaps off the couch like her non-blonde-hair has been set on fire (and with such insanely catty energy coming from these girls, I would say she's not out of the woods yet, actually), and makes for the door. On her way toward it, Chris yells some cautionary words behind her: "And don't open it!" He means the box. That line kills. Did Andrew tell them that whoever laughs loudest at Chris's non-joke gets a stack of twenties or something? Elizabeth returns with a large white box bedecked in a red bow, and dances around it like it was some kind of godsent totem that dropped to earth from outer space. The producers must be crazy! Open it. OPEN IT! The only way for this drawn-out intro to pay off at this point would be if the opened box revealed the shooting script from the final scene of Se7en with Mike Fleiss's head Photoshopped in.
"This is the first of many boxes," Chris tells them excitedly. Oooh, box drama. Does he mean that the boxes are positioned Russian-dolls-style, and there's another box inside of this box, and then an even smaller one inside of that? This season...on The Bachelornyet! Cough. Ahem. Sorry. Wow. I'll just go. Anyway, Chris continues: "Inside, you'll find out who's invited, a little about the date, and a personal note from Andrew." Can't you just do all that with a 3x5 note card? Or has the powerful box lobby finally gotten to them, too? Elizabeth opens the box and we learn (compliments of the aforementioned suggestion of a 3x5 note card) who will be going on the first group date: Christina from Florida, Kirsten, Tina from Tennessee, Elizabeth, and Amber. Elizabeth reads from the card: "Me me me me me! I'm doing stuff! Look at me!" Oh, sorry. That was actually just the stage direction. Here's what it actually says: "Leave your stress behind, as we get down and dirty." Also in the box are numerous body care lotions, gels, and muds of various kinds. Thanks again for the pointless big-ass box. Corporate sponsorship brought to you by Origins. Excess brought to you by Pandora.
In an interview, Tina from Tennessee is the first to weigh in: "I don't like the spa for lots of reasons. The girls I'm going with, they're all really little and they all have really good bodies, so I'm kind of like, 'These are not the kinds of people I want to be in bathing suits to.'" Because her hundred and twenty pounds of nothing are so offensive. So that's the only reason then, eh, Tennessina? Which sucks, because, despite a speaking voice that would probably be mistaken in a voice-over for, like, mine (and I mean that hers is a leeeeetle too low and mine is a leeeeeetle too, I dunno, Paul-Lynde-tastic?), she's the coolest. I want to hang out with her and sing show tunes with her all day and all night. Do you think she would like that? Oh, who cares? I could love it enough for the both of us!
The front door of The Malibu Barbies' Dream House opens to reveal Andrew "Little Lord Bacheloroy" Firestone. He fills us in that today's group date will take them to "a spa in Ojai," and he adds for our sympathy, "I wish I could read a book or a manual about how to date five girls at once." And we wish we could publish one for you, sir, but the proposal for Guy's Guide the to Televised Brothels of Southern California was a bit too incendiary for publication here at Mighty Big Press. And, no unsolicited manuscripts permitted! Jerk. Anyway, Andrew enters the house and calls out a strained "hi there" with that weird I-promise- my-voice-is- about-to-change- riiiiiiiiight-now voice that sounds like a cross between Keanu on helium and Tina from Tennessee. And we're out the door for Ojai on a typical Malibu day (bright and sunny with a 70% chance of fake tits), Tennessina calling behind her into the house, "Goodbye! We won't miss you!" The remaining girls in the house look at each other, all, "How did Isaac Hayes end up on the group date, or...oh, wait. Tina."
The limo steams down the Time Elapse Highway (we're here already? I guess nothing fun happened while they were boozing in the car), and pulls up in front of a quasi-Tex-Mex-y pastel sign reading, "Spa Ojai." Ack! You sunk my vowel ship! Elizabeth fills us in on what happens : "As soon as we got to Ojai, we changed into our bathing suits and went in the mud room. So we covered ourselves in mud and got a little dirty for the bachelor." Ew. Cut to this display in action, Andrew rubbing mud on Elizabeth and Christina (I think) rubbing mud on Kirsten (maybe) and Mike Fleiss rubbing his hands together with glee and thinking about how to dispense with this stupid "plot" thing the networks keep insisting on and finally just creating a show entitled Chicks Bending Over. Which, I'm sure, has been done. "L'il Archie" Andrew puts way too fine a point on it, observing in an interview, "To have your first date, not only with five girls, but to be half-naked, is certainly a boyhood fantasy." That sentence makes so little grammatical sense that it almost defies reality. So, anyway. Back in the mud baths (wipe your cares and your pride away!), Elizabeth wants to talk deep, and she asks about Andrew's fidelity in past relationships. Andrew hems like a tailor and haws like an evil French villain, finally spitting out as a sort of response, "There's no way that I would ever jeopardize what we've been working for, for some kind of miniature satisfaction." And that right there is totally the name of L'il Andy's autobiography: Miniature Satisfaction: The Andrew Firestone Story. He's so lovable I could just put him in my pocket and not cheat on him. The ladies too offer their varying impressed responses, finding him reliable and adorable with an approving "aaaaaw!" Or maybe they just say that because "au" is the periodic chart's symbol for gold.
Amber, really, is the dumbest. Out in broad daylight on what appears to be a golf course of some kind (she must have wandered off there in her carelessly boozy state and the camera crew gamely gave chase, I guess), she reviews the evening's conversation: "Andrew definitely gave a good answer on fidelity. He says he's never cheated and he's never been cheated on, and I think that's awesome. It's totally something that I respect." Wait. WAIT. First of all, when did "he won't cheat on me" become the singular criterion on which the extent of one's moral fortitude is based? Not cheating on someone should be a given in a relationship, not the thing that makes that relationship and the people in it so kick-ass. And, okay, second? How does the logic of "...he's never been cheated on, and...[i]t's totally something that I respect" stand to reason? Huh? So if he'd been the victim of someone else's infidelity, he becomes the social pariah because of his inability to keep his women close? Hi. Amber? Your brain is a sieve, your liver is pickled, your tan is fake, and shut up.
Back in the mud room, Elizabeth asks Andrew what his goals are over the ten years. He must be thinking, "This is the weirdest job interview ever. (But in a total 'boyhood fantasy' way, of course)." Boring! He responds that his main ideals are "business"-related, adding, "But I actually don't know if I'll be able to do it by myself." Well then, how about hiring on your fifty million friends, all named Benjamin, to be consultants for you? Dude, you're loaded. Pick a business. You could buy a sports franchise. You could build a plane and charter it around the world. You could go all Howard Hughes crazy and foster vast-reaching paranoid Communist fantasies. You could build a fifty-foot perfect likeness of yourself made entirely out of salt-water taffy and let the neighborhood children cross the protective velvet rope on Sunday and feast on your taffy head. Sky's the limit. What more help do you need? He adds, without sequitur, "All of my friends are getting married and recognizing that they're a lot happier like that." Back in her interview, Elizabeth confesses, "I've developed a crush on him, and I want to see if it's more than a crush. So I want the rose." A generous, shameless, we're-better-than- American-Idol- because-the-only- boobies-you-see- on-that-show- belong-to-Ruben montage of the five girls showering off the mud together follows. This was totally just like all of my boyhood fantasies. This, and meeting Patti LuPone.
Back at The Malibu Barbies' Dream House, Christina from New Jersey (this is how the producers cleverly decided to tell them apart? State names? How about last initials? Or nicknames? Or not choosing twenty-five girls all with the same name?) finds the Box Of Mystery And Fun, opening it up to find a note that tells them that Rachel, Audree, Heather, Elizabeth, and Amy will be attending the group date. I think I know who, like, two of them are. The note says, "This date is sure to be a slam," and they scream in glee that the note, coupled with some other ephemera in the Box Of Mystery And Fun made up of purple and yellow Lakers colors, means that they're going to a basketball game. What are they so happy about? When did chicks start digging basketball so much? Well, live and learn. Looks like Andrew did a really good job with his "planning" on this one.
Meanwhile, back in Ojai, the five girls and Andrew sit outside and just chat it up. Tennessina, wearing a bikini and sporting her perfectly flat stomach and getting sympathy from none of y'all regarding how well she stacks up against anyone else there or in the world, talks loud and low: "I had a boyfriend for a long time, but I kind of thought getting married was like surrendering. I don't want somebody to surrender to me. I want them to say, 'I can't spent another day without you.'" Just like in the Melissa Etheridge song where...nah, forget it. She speaks eloquently and persuasively on the value of being with someone for the long term, noting, "We're all going to sag, we're all going to have wrinkles. Who can you talk to in fifty years?" Kirsten -- sitting to Tennessina and holding a martini glass -- hears the wrinkles comment and agrees, "We all are." Meaning, "We all are except for me, Old Man Tina." Andrew looks Kirsten's way and asks without subtlety, "You wanna go take a walk?" Faces fall. Someone must have asked the other four of them, "Do you want to look cinematically crestfallen?"
In an interview, Andrew explains his attraction to Kirsten: "All day, Kirsten had been catching my eye." Yeah. Words are for suckers. Kirsten and Andrew walk literally into the room to get a massage. They lie down on two nearby tables, and we're treated to an awkward moment where Kirsten can't quite get her bikini top off. Ironic, in a world where confusion over how to unclasp the top is usually left to the accompanying little boy. Kirsten adds in an interview, "I'm self-conscious about my chest." Lots of girls in Florida have "big boobs," she tells us, and she feels like "that's all guys want." Well, if it's spoken in absolutes, it has to be true. Throughout the massage, Kirsten and Andrew share a dizzyingly slow exchange about how they're both "planners," the result of which does nothing more than wrench me out of my Zen recapping flow and remind me that this week I lost my planner containing the addresses and phone numbers of everyone I know, my calendar, my checkbook, several unpaid bills, my college loan booklet, three pens, and a book of stamps. So if you and I have plans (or a birthday) between now and the end of 2003 and I fail to show (or sing "Happy Birthday"), I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I'm kind of screwed. So thanks, Kirsten. On the other side of the patio, the four remaining girls talk about how jealous they are. Maybe they remember when Stee's birthday is. Because I, like, don't.
It's later now, and we're in a hot tub. The champagne is flowing freely and even the damn bikinis are pruning from overuse by this point, though for some reason Andrew is sitting only halfway in, and he's fully dressed. Amber, on the other hand, is fully loaded. She's downing glasses of champagne one after another, Andrew understating in an interview, "It became apparent that Amber had too much to drink." And how! Back in the tub, Amber slurs some weird invective Andrew's way, and then reaches into the tub for no reason other than to give Christina a big ol' "I love you, man!" hug. Christina wants nothing to do with this. At all. Cut to Andrew helping Amber out of the tub, Amber interviewing from a place of 20/20 hindsight, "I hardly ever drink." Oh, totally. "When you drink and you drink, it gets to you!" Hate. Hate hate hate hate HATE. She's like that one sort-of-pretty girl in every sorority who even the guys are like, "Yeah, she's foxy and all, but she's SO annoying when she's drunk. And she's always drunk." Dude. She's always drunk. Tennessina leads Amber back into their hotel room, interviewing that she thinks Amber has "put herself at a disadvantage by not knowing her limits." Anybody catch that there was a four-syllable word in there? I like this girl. The room door closes and the camera lingers outside the bathroom to find Tina calming Amber down while Amber retches and wails "I don't drink!" Oh, totally. "I'm not like this! You don't know me!" She so lacks all personal responsibility that it's painful to watch, and here we are, looking at that old scene of the dumb girl booting everywhere while the kindly lesbian from down the hall gives up her group date just to be a good friend. Flush that pride right down now.
Returning home to The Malibu Barbies' Dream House, Christina vies for screen time: "When The Bachelor arrived, I pulled him aside and made sure I got a few minutes to talk to him." Dude, just call him by his name. The title isn't so all-encompassing as to eclipse the presence of his name. He's not The Ayatollah Firestone or His Holiness The Dali Andrew. The other girls aren't such a big fan of Christina's actions either, the Other Christina observing, "I'm sure she's not the most popular girl in the house right now." Christina The First doesn't want to be popular. She just wants to be young. Outside the house, she sits him down on a chaise lounge and launches in: "I do hope that we kind of get to know each other." I see how this is important enough for a private, under-the-stars confab. Old Christina tells us that she doesn't care if other people think she's a bitch, adding, "If you want your time alone with him, it's fair game." And speaking of puking all over a pristine bathroom at an elite Ojai spa (which, really, when aren't we?), Shamber corners Andrew on his way in to tell him that she's "so freakin' sorry." Andrew tells us that "it just doesn't mean that much," telling her that she has "nothing to apologize for." Fine. I'll accept the apology for him, then. Or he could accept it on Tennessina's behalf for having to spend the night babysitting. Except, wait. I hate you, Amber. Andrew picking you would indicate what I perceive to be a weakness in Andrew's character.
More backstory from Andrew: "Today, I'm going to a Lakers/Clippers game." An accompanying shot of each girl reminds us who he'll be going with, but I would say that of these five, only Elizabeth can tell herself apart from the others. I sure hope the Staples Center is having some kind of "Generic Blondes Drink Free" promotional day, which will save them all a bundle, I'm sure. Amber will be so disappointed to have missed it. Andrew continues on: "I'm really looking forward to seeing those girls in that crazy scene." Um, "crazy scene"? I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that they would be enjoying their sports-related outing inside the shooting script of Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. "Hey, freak-diggity! I can't wait to check out the crazy scene at the b-ball match. In New York? No! In L.A. It'll be totally freaky-deaky!"
Amy tells us, "Andrew came to pick us up in this big bus. We all felt like rock stars." Or hicks at home. Nice Winnebago. The six of them toast with bottles of beer (except one bottle of water that enters the frame, which I'll guess is compliments of Mormon Molly...prude). On the bus now, Andrew tells the girls what he's looking for in a wife: "A girl that...well, not independent." Eep. Let's just let that one lie there all twisted and out of context for a moment. He adds that he does want a girl who can "stand on her own two feet," explaining, "My father, whenever we have big events, he'll grab me and say, 'Look at your mother.'" Okay, what? Big events? Grab him? I realize I'm not all high-society like these tire-eschewing magnates, but my interpretation of that line is something like this: "Whenever my father is parading our family fortune around in front of other similarly blessed contributors to the Republican Party, he will look at my mother, the woman behind his manifold greatness though not possessing any greatness in and of her own self, and be glad that her lack of stressful activities and her dual lifelong commitments to getting her children into really good private schools and volunteering at the library have not caused her strain great enough that she has become unattractive or overweight or prematurely aged, any and all of which would have forced me to stop loving her and start cheating on her many, many years ago. Which I'm probably doing anyway." But then again, I'm just an old romantic at heart. Who fucking hates rich people.
Arriving at the Staples Center, the five girls cheer in excitement when they find their names on the big electronic board out front. Inside the empty-except-for-them arena, they watch whatever the cheerleading version of batting practice is from their courtside seats. He was right. This scene is freaky-deaky!
Andrew excuses himself for a not-at-all-planned-by-the-producers moment, briefly allowing the girls to dish and gossip and whisper because that's just exactly what girls do, man. Elizabeth, for one, is not "all about guys who have wandering eyes." She thinks Andrew's talking to her boobs. I thought "wandering eyes" meant that he was talking to you but looking at someone else, not looking at your boobs. Have I mistaken the terminology? I'm confused. But Andrew doesn't care. He's back in the tunnel, hanging out with Shaq. Well, Shaq walks by, shakes Andrew's hand, bizarrely announces, "We went to high school together," and disappears. Then he climbs the Empire State Building with Andrew in his palm, roaring. I think I saw them together once before, in my introductory Italian textbook, Andrew and Shaq standing over the words "alto" and "basso," respectively.
Oh, look! The viewing audience of The Bachelor is suddenly supposed to know exactly who Derek Fisher is! They don't. He has something to do with the Lakers organization. Andrew and Derek walk out onto the floor of the arena and toward the girls, Andrew explaining in voice-over, "He had four purple jerseys and two white jerseys. He gave me one of the white jerseys, and he told me he would hand out the other white jersey to the lady he liked best." After a bit of banter with "the ladies" (please stop calling them that, Andrew), Derek bequeaths The White Love Jersey on Audree, and Andrew tells us, "I trust his decision. I'm definitely going to take it into consideration." The opinion of someone who met her for six seconds. From someone you'd met about five minutes before. Wow. True love blooms. Blooms, dies, and rots.
These mystery box sequences are getting shorter and shorter. The remaining five women -- Christina, Tina, Anne-Michelle, Jen, and a girl who callously refers to herself merely as "me" (oh, it's Shannon. Ew, it's Shannon) -- figure out that they're going to Lake Tahoe (perhaps due in part to the note that explicitly states the words "Lake Tahoe"), and scream in gleeful excitement. Amber and Elizabeth lie listlessly on the couch, staring glazed looks of "trust me, this shit isn't nearly as fun as it sounds" off into the ether. Anne-Michelle notes, "I think we're going to Lake Tahoe." See above note, smartie. Anne-Michelle looks like the girl in that episode of Seinfeld who looked really scary and washed out, but only in certain light. But Anne-Michelle lives perpetually under that light.
Tina tells us she's jealous of the other locations for the group dates, and says she wouldn't have chosen the spa. She reads the Tahoe note with Elizabeth and fires off a quick "Bitches." Tina is you. Tina is me. We love Tina. Got it?
Wait wait wait. I thought they were watching the fame courtside. What happened? They're up in a distant box now, eating and watching and cheering and pretending they love basketball because dudes love sports. Andrew chats up Audree, and Elizabeth frets that she's used to guys focussing on her. Well then, pay attention to the game, cheer at the right times, and root for whoever ambiguously went to high school with the big guy in yellow. You're a shoo-in. The game ends as a tight victory for the home team, of course. Do they make them all go to sixteen games and only take the final score of the one that shows the home team winning a kick-ass nail biter? Isn't that exactly what happened at the Chargers game last season onThe Bachelorette? Sometimes the home team loses. Deal with it. Well, unless they ambiguously went to high school with you, of course.
Down on the court after the game, Andrew takes what is probably the sixtieth shot he attempted, and he raises his arms in victory (and not a little surprise) after making the shot. Heather (right?) cuts a deal by which she gets a kiss if she hits a three-pointer, and Elizabeth crazily calls out, "What, a French kiss?" Because it would certainly be passé at this late date to suggest that what Heather would receive was actually a "freedom kiss," I shall not do so. But the point is moot anyway, since she doesn't hit the shot and fails to procure any kind of kiss at all. Andrew opines that his decision at the rose ceremony is going to be "difficult." What if you could give out ten white jerseys? Sounds like that would be a much more clarity-filled call for you, smalls.
It's champagne in a limo as we're on our way to the airport to take the private plane to Tahoe. Good god, man. Even that sentence just crossed the international dateline. Too much travel to get to Tahoe, I'm afraid. They applaud Tahoe as they touch down, and another limo takes the ladies to a local Harrah's. Yikes. A chain casino. Is this tacky? I think the one in Vegas is kind of crappy. I far prefer the Paris, the Venetian, or whatever dingy karaoke bar features the collective oeuvre of Lionel Richie. Good times, good times. Up in their lavish hotel room, Andrew pulls open a closet door to reveal five sets of clothing, shoes, accessories, and, I guess, blinking neon signs reading "scream really loudly or I'll kill this baby chick." I mean, what are they so freakin' yippy about? They jump up and down and celebrate their free stuff, Shannon taking this opportunity to offer L'il Andrew a big hug. Andrew, in an interview and in a tuxedo, tells us, "The girls went nuts. Their reactions spoke volumes in the fact they were so happy to be here. And maybe here to be with me." You're right. Nothing says "I'm happy to be here with a rich dude" quite like celebrating unearned, unsolicited free shit. Way to read the signals correctly, Tiny Tim. Shannon runs to Andrew behind the bar and hugs him, screaming, "I'm having the best time," thus evoking the legend of another nightmare Seinfeld girlfriend, the one who works with Elaine and goes to see Jerry at the comedy club with Kramer and heckles him just because she's too crazy not to. Maybe when this is all over, Andrew can go down to Shannon's office and heckle her. Meh. I'm sure he can find a way to make her cry before the hour (and two minutes) are over.
The girls toast and change into their dresses, meeting Andrew. He calls them "delicious." Ew ew ew. Andrew takes Jen aside, and tells us that he was "hugely impressed" with her. They're sitting at a bar now, and Andrew asks, "What questions would you lay on me?" Jen frets, "Your family is much different than my family." What, her family still cares about the tires? Oh, they're not rich. Oh. She worries that her lack of "high society" pedigree will be a problem for Andrew. But, as a friend of mine succinctly put it: "Dude, he's not an Astor, for crying out loud. Come on...tires?" To which I respond: wine. Andrew has his answer at the ready: "My mother had no clue about where my father was coming from, but what they had was a common respect and love. And so now, they are where they are because they did it together." Okay, two quick things on that. First, that is not the first time that he's mentioned his mother in such creepily loving terms, and I suspect it won't be the last. You hear your mother calling sweetly, Andrew? So did Oedipus. And second, and very importantly: in my life, I have known only a very few people of extreme, shameful, sickening, nine-figure wealth. And for some reason, they always toe the same party line about one (or both) of their parents coming from "so little," but that they rose together, like cream to the top! Blah blah blah bootstraps! Blah blah blah pluckish determination! Blah blah blah did it together! Is it because they think it humanizes them and brings them down to "our level"? Is it because they think the world won't respect the super-rich on their own super-rich merits, so they have to legitimatize that wealth within the context of some Old West notion of the American Dream? Because honestly, it's so patronizing. And I was on the verge of understanding it all once upon a time, but just as I was really starting to figure it out, my source material hopped a plane to his family's private Caribbean island and the lessons promptly stopped. Which is all well and good, because they surely weren't increasing my net worth. But honestly? I want my fucking t-shirt back. I never wear yours anymore anyway.
Gambling! We're down in the casino now, and Christina -- who, for some reason, is filmed with the same Vaseline-drenched lens silent-movie actresses used to use, in what I imagine is an attempt to reverse the visual effects of her rapidly advancing age -- tells us, "We had a half an hour to play with five thousand dollars' worth of chips. And whoever had the most chips at the end would win a private moment with Andrew." Wait! This is the twenty-four-year-old Christina? I thought she was the thirty-year-old Christina. I'm lost. Many "I'm excited about gambling!" shots ensue, with Christina taking the prize, hugging Andrew, and screaming, "I knew you wanted me." They leave the other four girls behind, drinking. And they leave me sitting here, in front of my computer, drinking.
Christina interviews, "I think that Andrew is most attracted to me." During their "private moment," Christina floats this weirdness: "I'm not getting any vibes from you. Like, bad, good. You're just kind of neutral. And for me, vibes are kind of important. Eye contact is important, vibes are important." She asks Andrew point-blank if he is "into" her, and he tells her that he finds her attractive (though gauzy, which is what I find her), but that he has "little to go on" because he's known her for six seconds. She wants to know if she's going to get a rose tomorrow, and he stammers that he can't make presumptions about anything and tells us that he felt "cornered" by her, as she looked for an answer that he wasn't willing or able to give. So he's all, "Bite me on my big taffy head, you crazy bitch." As well he should be.
Back in the Losers' Suite, the other four girls discuss what they think of Andrew. And may I express a bit of surprise that the girls at the basketball game were so willing to express their displeasure with certain aspects of his character. Mostly, all it does is remind me of how much The Bachelorette was just an infomercial and a clip reel for Trista Rehn. There had to be some point on that show when one of the guys expressed some level of displeasure with Her Perfectness, and one guy even went so far as walking off the show because he knew there could never be anything between him and the soulless automaton masquerading as a thirty-year-old actual person. It's a weird double standard that the producers never let us see her nasty side -- that in the editing room, they felt they had to go out of their way to protect The Bachelorette because she was "just a woman." For all of what people say about that show being an opportunistic ploy for Trista to further her Hollywood career, you've got her give her credit for such an amazingly subtle form of media manipulation. She should be on television; look at how much this medium needs her.
Anyway, I'm hella preachy tonight. Shannon deems Andrew "too good to be true." Anne-Michelle notes that he's not trying to be quote-endquote "The Bachelor." I can't explain it. It was in forty-four previews. Watch those. We cut to Shannon's one-on-one time with Andrew, in which she oddly launches in, "It's been brought up that I was in pageants." Yeah. By you. We learn further that she think the other girls "question her reasons" for being there. She wants to get to the level. She wants a rose. Andrew's not buying it; he thinks she came across as "auditioning for a beauty pageant contest." Dude, I wish she'd skipped right to the talent competition. There's no better way to get that rose than by whipping out a recorder for a little impromptu verse of "Hot Cross Buns." He continues by telling us that this is not a pageant, but that it's "more real than that." Yeah! This is about love! With fifteen girls! On TV! Andrew tells her, "Well, I appreciate you dragging me out here." Heh. In a weepy interview, Shannon admits that Andrew's wording, in her words, "didn't make [her] feel good." It made me feel good. Andrew once again tells us that he's anticipating a difficult decision. What if she played "Oh Susanna" instead?
Back at The Malibu Barbies' Dream House, Andrew wears a weirdly taupe suit and welcomes the women all home. They form a single line (did someone pull a fire alarm in an elementary school?) to greet him, and he, the one-man receiving line, bids them all a fine evening. Except to Tina from Wisconsin, who is wearing simply the ugliest dress I've ever seen in my life. Seriously, people. It's striped in three large horizontal bars. And it's sequined. And strapless. I think it's the flag of Qatar. Or, for those of you Commodore 64 enthusiasts out there with a penchant for the Olympic thrill of "Summer Games" or "Winter Games," I'm pretty sure she's wearing the flag of the sovereign nation of "Epyx." Does anyone remember that? My brother and I still talk about it all the time. I think they're in the coalition of the willing, too.
Elizabeth tells Andrew that she's excited to be there and hopes she's not being too standoffish. Tina from Wisconsin tells Andrew that it's "not just about looks." Amber has a shot for each sequin on Tina's dress and makes Audree play with her hair in a very Tennessina-is- always-in-the- wrong-place-at- the-wrong-time kind of way. Then Christina tells Andrew that he is "awesome," but feels like they wouldn't make a compatible couple. And then she leaves. Excellent! She tells us that she didn't feel like she could be in "a romantic relationship" with Andrew, and bails into the limo. Elizabeth doesn't take it very well, and she dives into the car, bursts into tears, and is all, "I'll miss you so much!" Christina and Elizabeth have known each other for nine seconds. No one else knows why Elizabeth's crying.
Andrew asks Elizabeth, "Do you think there are girls who are here for the wrong reason?" She tells him that she thinks there are, but that she can't call anyone out, saying that other guys don't get these kind of hints when they're dating in the normal world. Elizabeth finally cops to the fact that Tina from Qatar might be "a great girl, but that doesn't mean that she's a great girl for you." Elizabeth tells us that she told him, "do what feels right"? Why would he ask her that? What's going on? I hate Amber. Back in the house, Chris steals L'il Andrew away, and Andrew tells us in voice-over that he thinks tonight's decision will be much more difficult than last week's. Not true. Not even statistically. Keep ten girls. Dump four. And here they are: Amber, Amber, Amber, and Amber. Sorry. I've had so many I'm seeing four of all of them. Oh, fine. And Shannon.
We're back in the secret chamber of testosterone-laden decision-making, Chris asking Andrew how he's changed so far throughout this process. Andrew responds that the nervous energy has given way to excitement. Chris takes the bamboo passel of roses and leaves Andrew to watch his special video messages. Every girl wants a rose. That is such a crazy sentiment! Heather calls herself "Heath" with a soft "th" and blows him a kiss and I hate her now, too. Amber has to thank Andrew for "taking care of" her. That is so sad. Andrew fake-laughs at Elizabeth's non-joke, even though he's alone in the room. That is classy stuff. Classy, self-conscious, media-whoring stuff.
You could cut the tension in that room with one of Tina's sequins.
Anne-Michelle, will you accept this rose? She will, and she whispers a "thanks, sweetie" in Andrew's ear, much to the eye-rolling horror of Tennessina. You need someone to cut her off on Sunset for you when she's on her way to an audition? I totally know people who would be glad to oblige.
Kirsten, will you accept this rose? Kirsten and Andrew are exactly the same color. Could it be love?
Jen, will you accept this rose? Will you be the wife who stands idly by and doesn't complain that the private plane isn't taking off on time? Eeeeexcellent.
Tenessina, will you accept this rose? She will. Everyone laughs. She's Bob from The Bachelorette. She's Gretchen from Survivor. She's the cool, lovable, eventual loser who all of us relate to and are sad to see go, but we know that they're not synthetic enough non-people to sell their souls to go all the way. They're a reflection of a piece of ourselves. And if I were a Ph.D. candidate in the discipline of reality television, this recap would be perfect. And only forty pages too short.
Audree, will you accept this rose? Blah blah blah Mormon joke. I don't know. I'm all out. I'm sure I had one written in my planner.
Heather, will you accept this rose? What about this advice: you look like everyone else. Start packing your bags. You're hanging on by a thread.
Christina, will you accept this rose? Bitch.
Tina from Wisconsin, will you accept this rose? Woohoo! Let the national anthem of the sovereign nation of Epyx play proudly on!
Amber, will you accept this rose? Well, if white is the rose of friendship and yellow is the rose of, I don't know, Texas, does that make red the color of me totally losing my respect for the man at the front of the room? Because it kind of does now. Really, ew.
Math is hard! Chris simplifies things by reminding us that this is the final rose tonight.
And finally...
Oops! Never mind! That was the exact moment at which this show crossed the one-hour mark, and I'm only contracted to write about an hour, as you are only contracted to watch an hour. This subtly super-sized bullshit should be outlawed. Television gives you parameters. If you are unable to tell a compelling story within the confines of said parameters, write The Bachelor: The Opera, make it sixteen fucking acts, and free-form the day away. While you're on my turf, you will make a sixty-minute show and that is it.
Oh, fine. I'll finish. I'm a sucker for that puppy-dog stare.
Elizabeth, will you accept this rose? Good god. The woman looked like she was ready to have a heart attack.
Shannon craps on that Amber was boozed up at the rose ceremony, Elizabeth weeps that she's "daddy's little girl," and Andrew toasts to being "another step closer." Amber sticks her rose between her teeth, wheels her IV poll of booze down the hall, and collapses into her bed of shit and shame until the time the camera turns its judging gaze on her palsied, drunken gait and her tiny, dumb face.