A caffeinated, almost sarcastically excited crowd of vacationing middle-aged women and their daughters fills a soundstage just east of Fairfax. As the nondescript but achingly familiar strains of "The Bachelorette Mash" (it was a pop-culture-graveyard-smash!) fill the room, the women clap like Tinkerbell is on her death bed, and all the while they cling to the recorded announcement played right before the cameras started rolling that, if they'll be patient, Dr. Phil will be out to solve all of their problems in juuuuuust a minute or two. It may be a lie, y'all, but isn't it their fault for choosing to believe it?
The lights come up, instead revealing the face of "All I Want For" Chris "Mas Is To Stop Losing My" Harrison, wearing a peculiarly shiny silver polo shirt and the same pair of ill-fitting khakis I wore to temple the night before my Bar Mitzvah. You know that age? That age where nothing fits right? Chris is that age tonight. He speaks directly into the camera, which I must admit I find a bit invasive: "Good evening. And welcome to The Bachelorette: The Men Tell All." A reality-show name with a colon in it? What is this, his fucking graduate thesis? And did I miss the memo that The Bachelorette: The Men Tell All is the actual title of the show now? Why is this the first time we're privy to a descriptive sentence letting us know the thesis statement of the episode before it even starts? How come the past weeks weren't tagged with helpful openings like "Welcome to The Bachelorette: Greg Lives In A Broken-Down Shanty on the Outer Valence of Coolsville" or "Welcome to The Bachelorette: Ryan Wears a Really, Really, Really Gay Hat"? It could've helped. I'm just saying. So Chris welcomes us, having no idea which word of this newly-minted title to emphasize, deciding on the curious "Men" over the fairly obvious "All." But we'll leave him alone early tonight, because he's obviously nervous about having so much screen time, for once. Plus, he's feeling awkward about the fact that his protruding belly can see its own reflection in his shiny shiny shirt, and he's mad at his mother for picking those clothes out for him in the first place. Other boys may be just the chess princes, but he's been to the mall, and Chris is the only Chess King. And yes, since you asked. I just checked. And I am a total supermodel.
"For weeks, we've all be glued to our televisions, watching Trista in her search for love." Who is the "all" to which he is referring, exactly? People who have never heard of American Idol? People who have that really weird cable plan that only includes one hour of network television a week? People living in politically neutral countries that no one's heard of where they avoid war and whose main export is, like, doilies? "The tables turned and the power finally in a woman's hands, emotions ran high and egos were bruised." "Finally." Take that, thousands of years of gender inequality! It's payback time, and Trista sure is the Miami Heat Martyr willing to give herself over to this bunch of Poindexters in order to turn the tide. "When it all began, there were twenty-three other men involved, and tonight they're back and ready to answer the questions that you've been dying to ask." Like what, for the love of god? LIKE WHAT? "Who will Trista choose?" But we know they won't answer that. And besides, we already know the answer. And, also, shut up, Chris Harrison. But tonight he won't shut up. Not tonight. Tonight is his night. To be the stah.
"Please welcome...our bachelors!"
And through history we go, through two rows of broken-hearted (er, I meant "ego-shattered") suitors on taupe couches. Also, one dork in the first row on the left is trying to make himself look really big because he's occupying not only his own seat, but also the seat that was supposed to be filled by Greg. Isn't Hollywood the land of dreams? Can't someone dream up a new couch to account for the missing personnel? Anyway, the camera pans past each ousted bachelor in a gauzy, nostalgic way quite reminiscent of The Hall of Presidents, the only real difference being that in most cases the Disney animatronic characters have far more believable hair than most of these guys. Let's travel back! Down the rows we go, past Brian C. (meh), Jeff (hut!), Peter (duh), Eric (who?), Wayne (old!), Billy (snore), Brian H. (ooooh), Jack (ew), Brian K. (who?), Duane (gack!), Gregg H. (who?), Paul (who?), Matt (who?), Josh (gay), Chris (who?), Brook (yee-haw!), Mike (ew), Russ (spawn), Bob (yay!), Brian S. (who?), Rob (awwwww), and Jamie (AWWW!). The audience -- equipped with TRL-type lung capacity but without the added inhibition that Carson Daly might show up and touch them a little weird -- screams with glee after each name read. Clearly they've been implored to do so, or I'm guessing, say, Wayne (for example) wouldn't be getting such an overwhelming outpouring of "squeeeeee!" But they give it up in particular for Bob and Jamie, as well they should. With each scream, the prideless ninnies sound more and more like steam in a heater cracked up to ninety trying to escape through a closed vent. Pipe down, ladies. Upon further reflection of that horrific noise, I think it's possible that the vent is also filled with kittens. Squeeeeee!
"Now obviously," Chris vamps quickly, thinking it can pass without comment, "we are missing one of our bachelors tonight. Greg T. wasn't able to attend, and we wish him the best." And you've got to give him credit for realizing how dumb it is to gloss over this when there's been so much press on it (if you believe that the words "the press" and "Page Six" are, in fact, synonymous, as I do), but Chris can't even choke that sentence out without a knowing sneer. For those of you who don't know, Greg was on his way to Los Angeles to tape this very reunion show, and he was busted at JFK with a controlled substance known to drug enthusiasts and fans of '80s cultural artifacts as "cocaine." In an airport. In New York. In 2003. With cocaine. Some people just deserve to be in jail. But he saved himself in a way, because he made it plainly obvious that he's not mentally competent enough to be put to death for the crime. What he did deserves a few knowing sneers. So seriously? Go, Chris.
Now sitting in a chair in the center of the stage, Chris offers, "Fellas, it's good to see you again." Chris has already spoken more cumulative words in this episode than he has for the whole of the season up until now. Alex McLeod must be fuming that she doesn't get to save face like this. Who's that, you may ask? Well, exactly. Chris exposits, "You know, we've never done The Bachelorette before, so we really didn't know what it was going to be like in that first Rose Ceremony, when the tables were turned." Seriously, I'm going to track down the person who uses that exhausted expression and personally sever his or her "connection." There are no tables. Sell the tables. Write some new copy. Shut up. "What was it like for you guys?" Bob hazards that it was "crazy." Brook hazards in agreement that is was "crazy." Russ hops to the challenge of making sure no one in either the room or in America will ever like him again, hogging the spotlight with the observation, "Those Rose Ceremonies, you have no control. You feel like you're a piece of meat up there." The crowd goes wild because of the red neon sign that just dropped down just away from the camera's gaze, reading, "Go wild!" Russ smiles wickedly. It's not for you, Russ. It's for turning tables. And, maybe, the meatpacking industry? Difficult to know for sure.
Either way, Russ wins himself an invitation to the "hot seat," which is the other, empty seat right to Chris's. After Russ and Chris share that handshake/hug/backslap trifecta that signals the opening move in The Nongay Ballet, Russ takes a seat and gets ready for the third degree. And Chris isn't pulling any punches: "Russ, of course, was the first guy to kiss Trista. But it may have been the kiss of death." Now that is a great line. So few lines in reality-show host copy include a silent, cliffhanger-y "dum-dum-DUUUUUM!" just following them.
"Let's take a look at your journey...through The Bachelorette." Hey, who set the alarm for Montage O'Clock? On a video monitor, we work our way through Russ and Trista's very brief, very unloving love affair. He meets her and introduces himself as "Russell." We're reminded for the billionth time in his interview: "When I watched The Bachelor, I turned to my buddy and said, 'I'm gonna date that girl someday.'" We know. WE KNOW! We've heard it six thousand times. Does anybody else feel like there's almost no character more important on this show than the ubiquitous "buddy" to whom Russ offered that precious sound bite? He's like the father whose picture hangs on the wall in The Glass Menagerie, important to all but with no lines of his own. And I'll bet the "buddy" really said it and Russ is just taking credit for it. Or maybe he just said, "Dude, pass the Corn Nuts," and Russ translated it as people talking about him him him him him. Back on Montage Island, Russ gives Trista a bracelet. Russ chisels his way through Vegas. Russ and Trista kiss at Ghost Bar, and the crowd at the reunion show actually squeeeees all over again, as if this is a moment of glee and not something you're supposed to respond to with absolute fucking horror. Russ tells us through a late, drunken haze, "My gut feeling is that I will be the last man standing." The other guys judge him, including Charlie, who notes, "I thought Russ was a [bleep]ing cheeseball the whole time. I mean, there's no doubt about it." And you'd know one when you saw one, wouldn't you, Dippity-Don't spokesman? From inside her soundproof isolation tank, Trista appears in a box at the bottom left of the screen and puts her hand over her mouth in shock at Charlie's comment. Her man, cussing and carryin' on! Or, um, her runner-up, cussing and carryin' on! After all, how am I to know? Brook judges the bracelet. Russ becomes aggressive. Russ and Trista fight in Sedona. Russ gets booted. The audience applauds. Chris and Russ hold for adulating applause for one second too long, giving me the necessary amount of time to note with some level of certainty that the bowl of fake fruit sitting on the table between them has more personality than most of the guys sitting on those couches.
Chris is there because Chris knows how to ask the tough questions: "What's your reaction? First of all to Trista, hearing that stuff for the first time? And about what the guys think about you?" For some reason, Russ throws that question to the long-forgotten (yes, he was my show boyfriend for a brief time. Yes, I am that fickle) Rob, with whom I guess there was some simmering animosity to which we were never privy. Rob constructs a sentence in which every word might as well just be "duuuuude," so chill is he in his delivery: "He forgot that there were twenty-four guys that were also having the unique experience." Ew. "Unique experience" describes taking LSD or dabbling in naturism during the summer; I just don't think this qualifies. And anyway, Chris sees Bob shaking his head, and asks him, "The whole purpose of this was to try and beat the other twenty-four guys, right?" Bob non-replies, "The one thing that surprised me the most is that Trista didn't kiss on the first date, because I know Jamie tried a little lip lock, and it worked out the complete opposite of the way it went for us." Heh. When in doubt, change the subject, return to the practiced material, and nail the joke. I can dig it. Jamie, from his seat, responds genially, picking up a pillow from his couch and throwing it at Bob. No roughhousing with the feng shui, boys.
Chris ignores Jamie: "You were, as we saw, the first guy to kiss Trista, in Vegas. Did you know that at the time?" Russ says he figured it out because it was the first group date, but that "each of us had alone time with her that night." Brook combatively butts in, really mad, claiming, "You took all of it." He then spontaneously laughs maniacally when Russ looks him in the eye, Satan's power surging through him. Oh, that laugh is creepy. I hope he doesn't do something really weird like start dancing like a marionette puppet or something. He's too happy about his sadness right now. Brook is freaking me out. But Josh, wearing une belle chapeau, agrees, "We were all hanging out at the club, having a good time. And then basically y'all took off." Russ defends himself that he was following Trista to the room, employing the logic, "If I was [sic] so aggressive, she wouldn't have brought me to the room." Okay. Prick up your pointy devil ears, Mephis-STOP-IT-eles, because I only have it in me to say this one more time: She. Took. You. Back. To. Her. Room. Because. She. Was. Wasted. Booze talks, she walks. The proof is in the proof. I'm running out of ways to say it.
Chris pulls an I'd-like-to- bring-the-house- down-a-little-now routine with his question, transitioning into a much darker place: "I know you've taken a lot of grief publicly," to which Russ offers a plaintive "More than you know." And I feel bad for him for exactly one second, arguing with some small part of me that Russ's only crime was appearing on television and that he's been made into a national pariah and that's not right. I have a friend whose insecure behavior with women reminds me a lot of Russ's treatment of Trista (and his subsequently revisionist ways), and at worst he's misguided but he's certainly not evil. But seriously? Screw it. It's a reality television show. I don't have time for complex emotional layering. So, for the purposes of this season, Russ sucks, okay? Chris continues: "One national talk-show host called you a stalker and said Trista should get a restraining order against you." Yeah, that's some hard-hitting investigative prowess, Joy Behar. Why am I so convinced that it was she who said that? Anyone got a line on that? ["Caroline Rhea would be my guess, except I don't think being on a show that airs at 3:20 AM in fourteen markets across the country qualifies one as 'a national talk-show host.'" -- Wing Chun] Russ rationalizes that these attacks are not attacks on Russ, but rather judgments on "the character that I am on the show." Chris is at the ready: "But wait. You played yourself on the show." And the crowd? Goes wild. But we knew what Russ meant. Though I think I'd give a lot more credence to the whole "I was edited to be the villain" defense if the rest of the guys -- who lived with him even when the cameras went elsewhere -- didn't seem to think he totally sucks. Because they all kind of seem to think that. Russ cops to having had feelings for Trista, though again he words it badly: "I stayed around long enough to experience more than what some of these guys did." Boo! Hiss! season, they should just have the bad guy played by a puppet wearing a handlebar moustache who they can throw rotten fruit at. And his name should be named Arc E. Type. We've seen this a million times. It's not 1999 anymore.
Any questions from the audience for Russ? Anyone? Oh, here's one now. A blonde girl in a black tank top who thinks maybe she can be famous too because she's been on TV once steps up to a microphone and asks, "What happened to you on the fantasy date?" Russ cuts right to it: "Romantically, I wasn't into it anymore." Trista appears again in the bottom corner of the screen, shaking her head in disagreement. Look, sister. If your puss is going to occupy a quarter of my television's surface area, could you at least make yourself useful down there and provide the sign language translation? Isn't that what people in your box usually do? Actually, come to think of it, the presence of the box does serve to obscure a significant portion of Chris's weird and distracting khakis, so I'm done complaining. Russ tells us, "I just wasn't into it anymore." Yeah. I think I could force myself out of love with someone too if they told me, "I wouldn't touch you if a card in an envelope in my purse said I could...also if you were the last man on earth." Poor Russ. The Joy Behar Shitlist is the social kiss of death.
It's Bob's turn in the hot seat, because America needs to be reminded that it still knows how to love a hero. The crowd goes into paroxysms of joy as Bob walks onto the stage. Before he's allowed to sit down, Chris indicates Bob and does the spokesmodel wave over him, asking, "What happened to the rest of Bob?" Look. He wasn't overly fat before and he isn't overly skinny now. I'd even venture to say he looks kind of exactly the same as he did on the show. Still, Bob goes where the material is honed: "Now that's a fat joke." Chris tells us that -- despite the fact that we ignorant viewers knew Bob merely as "funny" and "popular" -- "there's a serious side to Bob." Wait. More than one emotion making up a person's total self? It's unheard-of! He must have dementia or perhaps an imbalance of the bodily humors! How can both "funny" and "serious" live in tandem in the mind of one man without driving him mad? Perhaps his excess of emotional capacity is what resides in his ample gut. We're treated to a montage of what Chris calls "Deep Bob," which begins with his dance from the first episode, a clip which is followed by Trista in interview telling us, "Bob just has this amazing sense of humor. He cracks me up. I love that!" Didn't love it enough, though, didja? DIDJA? Whatever. We've all gone for hot over normal at one time or another. I'm with you, Trista. But I'm never going back there. More clips of Bob's hilarity, and of Bob getting chosen for Rose Ceremony after Rose Ceremony despite enormous ass. I mean odds. Despite enormous odds, I mean. Sorry. We then see Bob getting thrown over for Greg in the hunt for the final rose. Greg, will you accept this nose candy? A seen-for-the-first-time interview finds Trista telling us, "I could see him being my best friend, but not necessarily the person I could marry." Zowch. That's gotta sting. I guess she didn't get up to the "It's not you it's me" chapter of Lines to Dump Guys You Won't Believe! And Neither Will He book she keeps on her nightstand. Chris notes this as well, calling "the 'F' word" "the worst word a guy could ever hear." Bob adds, "A fat friend." If you keep drinking from it, Bob, that well will soon be empty. Chill out on the fat jokes. Go find lunchmeats funny for a while. Or foreign films. Or airplane peanuts, the differences between men and women, or curling. You are obviously a superlatively amusing individual. Harvest it. Just don't harvest it, add polyunsaturated fat, and eat it. You're better than this one note. Get out there and play another note.
Chris does note, on the other hand, "You did take some heat on the message boards." He did? Y'all, lay off Bob. "But the media was also kind of hard on you as well." Bob recounts a quick story in which a radio DJ kept referring to him as "Fat Bob," until Bob took the reins and turned the tables (sorry), referring to said radio personality as "Stupid Steve." And again, I'd probably feel worse for him if I understood why these people deserve to be interviewed on the radio. Fame is odd. Bob gets his biggest laugh so far in telling us, "I went on the show a little heavier than I usually am," saying that he sees that in retrospect as an asset: "Everybody else was all buffed and ripped and everything else, and I was bringing a little something extra." Heh. A lot of something extra. Boohoo, Bob. You had me and then you ate me. Chris takes pains to remind us that Bob is an athlete, and that the reason he was so perversely, morbidly obese on television is that he "blew out [his] Achilles." But he pronounces it as if saying any vowel sound other than the long "e" would mean you would certainly be sentenced to death. "Ee-KEE-leez." That's how he says it. That's wrong. In closing, Bob notes that his strategy on the show was a sure-fire winner, as he tells us, "I bulked up. The way I look at it, I've got nothing to lose. I'll always look better than I did on the TV show. These guys? One Fatburger and it's all over for them." Dude. Here are some other things you can go and find funny: the IRS. Car commercials. North Dakota.
Another blondie from the studio audience -- this one with black-framed glasses and a business casual cardigan -- tells Bob, "You're definitely our favorite bachelor." She's gonna get buzzed if she doesn't phrase that in the form of a question. Her question regards the aftermath of the Rose Ceremony in which Bob was booted, asking if he was "crushed" when Trista backhanded the compliment about giving him the fifth rose that didn't technically...well, exist. He responds magnanimously, "I know how she meant it. I think she meant it to be a real heartfelt gesture, so I took it as such. I was really happy about it." Chris asks about other relationships Bob has been in since the end of the taping, and he trims the hedges with a long answer that culminates with his lifetime ideology: "Have a good time." The verdict is in, people: fat people are jolly. But he doesn't stop there: "I was always stuck in the mold of trying to please other people, and now I please myself." Beat. "And that sounds really weird." Masturbation? Fertile ground for comic exploration. Y'all, let's give it up for Bob.
Jamie is called down to the hot seat with the invitation, "Who eats dog food from a forty-pound bag?" I can barely suppress the Stonecutters call-and-response, "We do! We do!" that creeps up on me pretty much, like, whenever someone asks a question. Jamie waves at the crowd, and said crowd goes wild for it. Chris takes us back to that first fateful night in Encino: "Not only did you impress Trista, but you were an odds-on favorite with most of the viewers. Including my mom, by the way." Hey, Chris? I know that's the first-ever reference you yourself have made about your mom. And still, that's enough about your mom. Montagecakes, where we discover Jamie in a series of shirtless, running poses. I'm drunk on a six-pack of Jamie, y'all. Trista deems him "the perfect catch," but Shannon, Original Bachelor Cast Member, adds onto that, "He's just so nervous around Trista that he doesn't act like himself." Jamie winces repeatedly from the sign-language box as he watches himself. Trista thinks he "has some insecurities about himself for absolutely no reason." Cue amazingly awkward kiss on the beach, followed by Jamie not getting a rose. Trista ends with a remark about Jamie having to "believe in himself," and we learn from Jamie in his interview that he has a history of "panic attacks," and that his decision to appear on television was a strength, rather than what he thinks that she perceived as a weakness or a "lack of confidence." He does seem like a good guy. But awkward self-consciousness does not make for particularly great television. Chris asks Jamie if he wishes he'd made a move on Trista during the shower scene, but Jamie is glad he played it cool, adding, "Typically, on a first date, I do that. Take a shower with a girl." Heh. Not bad. Way to call this show out on its inherent non-reality. That I can get behind. He refers to the failed kiss as a "spectacular TV moment," going on to define panic attacks and blaming Trista for thinking that he was just a nervous loser. But Jamie is single, he wants to let us know, and the crowd goes slightly wild, including one woman aaaaaall the way to the right of my screen who does what I can only categorize as a "You go, girl" dance in response to his continuing singlehood. Stop it! Stop it! You're going to make him nervous!
"Let's talk a little bit about rejection," Chris suggests. Thinking this will finally be his golden opportunity to bitch out Probst for what is an obvious glut of generic game-show "personalities" sporting ill-fitting khakis, I lean in with growing interest despite the fact that I'm clearly losing interest in this episode. But it's something else entirely: "Most guys aren't used to having the tables turned like this." Oh, good god. That's enough. "Brook was the one guy that confronted Trista when he had issues. And if anything, I think America respected him for his grit." And now, on to what is clearly the dumbest subplot in this season's seemingly endless dumbness. Let's get something straight: Trista didn't pick Brook because he was a nitwit misogynist hick with a mullet. But she wasn't a liar. Quite to the contrary. I'm sure she is allergic to horses. But the issue isn't whether she can stand to be with a guy because she's allergic to his horses. The issue is being with a guy whose name doesn't start with "Count" or "Master" who has horses at all. Brook and Trista were from two separate planets, and it's a planet on which a future correspondent for Access Hollywood (er, I mean "a pediatric physical therapist who thinks that kids are, like, totally groovy") and a simple farmhand who sleeps under the sky and calls it a "skah." Trista didn't pick Brook because he should be with someone who can sow and reap, and because she she be with someone who isn't him. Not stringing him along was a savvy move made by a thinking woman whose opinion I respected four weeks ago when I still liked her. Brook is tertiary to this plot. Let it die.
Brook could just as well be a farmer way out on the open prairie of Montage-ana, as we cut to the usual clip package. They meet. Nothing happens. Trista's concerned about horses. She's shallow. Out on the porch, she's shallow. Look at him, sticking to his guns, telling Chris, "I wouldn't change it for the world." He tells Chris he stands behind everything he said and gets some rousingly hypocritical audience applause. He adds on that he also finds her behavior "pathetic," saying that you can get "shots and pills for it." Excellent diagnosis, Dr. Billy The Kid! Are you kidding me? Does he want me to go on a date with penicillin? What if penicillin had a mullet? Even less likely, right? And right there is my point. From the lower-left corner, Trista From The Box appears and responds with looks of shock. "Love can conquer anything," Brook waxes. "That's what my dad always said." He's dead now, of course. Trampled by a horse, they say. Chris asks if people have responded well to Brook since he's been on the show, and whether he feels he's garnered some respect for himself. This is his actual, verbatim reply: "Especially the cowboys around that I hang out with. They all pat me on the back and say, 'Way to stand up for the cowboys.'" No one has ever said that, either to him or ever.
And now, this episode's redeeming brilliance that will give some of Mike Fleiss's minions the idea for a reality show called Frat House, which will just be a show about twenty-five dudes getting wasted and falling. Hire me. For the love of god. ["Not a Mike Fleiss production, but close enough." -- Wing Chun] Chris takes it: "You've all heard the saying 'boys will be boys.'" Cut to Chris welcoming the guys to G'u'y's' H'o'u's'e', telling them, "What would a bachelor pad be without a house dog? Goldie will be living with you as well." They totally heard our cry of, "What? With the dog?" and decided to splice that non sequitur in. Not that it explains anything at all. But it's worth it for the montage of Greg having absolute sex with this dog in a variety of poses. Cut to what I would guess is about half of the guys deciding to take part in a Century Club. For those of you wondering, that's one shot of beer every minute for sixty minutes. Every minute, on the minute. It carries with it the same level of elusive ease as the "six saltines, one minute, no water" dare that is virtually impossible to win, and you really think you're going to make it with no problem at all until around the mid-twenties. And then, you're fucked. Or you're Jack, and you pee on your bed. But not before Jamie eats dog food, which we've already seen as well. The guys, fresh out of the pool, walk into Jack's room to find him actually urinating onto his bed. Are they allowed to show this? The guys in the room (Jamie, Charlie, Bob, others) are literally laughing so hard they can barely stand up, and Jamie hails a passing camera to tell it, "It's the funniest thing I've ever seen in my life." Which, in that social milieu, at that time, with that level of inebriation, I have to admit I imagine was pretty funny. They watch as Jack wanders into the bathroom completely unconscious of what's going on around him. They carry his bed outside, and we cut to a late-night scene, hours later, which finds Jack waking up, stumbling around wildly confused, and finding himself in the middle of the production booth before finally finding his way home. This show totally went all Truman Show just to show us how trashed he was. Way to soldier it out for the sake of art, The Bachelorette: The Men Tell All.
But what's this? "Gentlemen, I have a little surprise for you." What could it be? Someone turning the tables, perhaps? "There's been a very interested viewer backstage, watching and listening to every word you've said." I guess I would also remain at that level of "totally riveted" if I were the subject of everything everyone said. And so, "Join me in welcoming Trista." The crowd goes madcap. Oscar wins get shorter applause periods than this, and fewer people stand for your walk to the front. Does it seem fair? Has she contributed anything? Maybe they're clapping because she works so well with children. Chris welcomes her to the stage, starting off by asking if she has anything she wants to say. To the collective surprise of no one, there are a few rebuttals she wouldn't mind making: "The biggest thing that I've thought of is about Jamie." She worries that he thought he was booted because of the panic attacks, but explains, "I think it is a strength and that you have absolutely no reason to be insecure." He nods and thanks her. They're all better. Chris tries to find another axe for grinding purposes, and Trista tells Brook, "Sitting backstage, I kind of got the notion that you thought I was a liar and not just shallow." Brook busts in, "I didn't know that. 'Cause we never got together. Did we?" And another hallmark of a healthy relationship? When your mate interrupts you with scorching vitriol every nine seconds. "Honey, can you pass the..." "The what? The salt? Like the salt I feel is poured in my eyes every time you open your mouth, so painful for me is it to hear the sound of your shrill voice?" That's Brook and Trista, married. You can guess who plays which part. Trista wonders why Brook is taking all of this so personally, seeing as he was only one of three guys she totally ignored in Vegas (along with Jeff and Brian S.), and he responds, "I didn't." He then smiles broadly when Trista tells him that she "likes horses," and that she couldn't be a part of his life as long as that was true. And the response Brook offers is as follows: "Y'know, we didn't work out. I happen to have horses and she's very allergic to them. So I have no hard feelings either." Big, dopey grin. Go, Brook. Way to stand up for the cowboys.
Trista and Russ? Hate each other. It's like they went through a whole relationship without ever having a relationship, and now they're in the middle of this awful breakup without "the good times" as a buffer or a point they can return to for solace. There were no "good times." They've known each other for exactly six minutes. And Russ did rewrite history a bit way back in his hot seat days, and Trista sets it right immediately: "You said that when were in the Fantasy Suite, you decided it wouldn't be a good idea. Something to that effect. And I specifically remember making that decision, that I was going to go back to my own hotel room." Russ squirms in horror, retorting that "there was nothing romantic" about his decision to go back to her room. Oh, sure. Because the so-called "Fantasy Suite" has nothing to do with sex. The "Fantasy Suite" is actually a place where "fantastical" things happen, where hobbits run free, and the future of a lurking grue's fate can be decided with merely the simple throw of two ninety-sided dice. Russ deems them "friends," which is also something people cling to when a non-relationship falls apart precipitously and they need to make their physical connection significant. That's even worse than wanting to be friends with someone because you don't find them attractive; that's wanting to be friends with someone because you don't understand why they don't find you as attractive as you thought they did. Wow. That's really depressing.
"I thought you handled the double standard very well," Chris un-segues to Trista. And honestly, right now, I don't know what he's talking about, really. Is it the "if a man gets a lot of women he's a stud, if a woman gets a lot of me she's a whore" hoary old matrix again? Chris continues, "I did hear an interview on the radio. A guy calls in and says, 'I have three daughters. What do I tell my daughters?'" Well, you can start by telling them that you didn't buy the VHS set of this season of The Bachelorette at Zainy Brainy or at the gift shop of the Children's Museum. You can tell them that network dating shows are not intended to be consumed for their educational value, despite the egregious lack of warning screens at the beginning and end of every episode. You can tell them to do their homework, read a book, kiss all the boys they want, and for the love of god NEVER to base their own actions on the lives of people on television. That way lies madness, Dad. In that future, they'll always be getting engaged just because the show has come to an end, they'll always buy the most genuine faux pearl ring in the display case, and they'll always be out of sugar because that danged Mrs. Poole comes and borrows a cup of it right at the fifteen-minute mark of every single freakin' episode. These are people on television. And they're not going to teach us a goddamn thing. Dad.
Trista sees it differently: "I hate the stupid double-standard stuff, because I think people need to be compared not on a gender basis...but as individuals." That is a far more idealistic way of putting it, I must say. It's also, admittedly, a pretty egalitarian way to admit, "Y'know, I'd kiss girls if I could!" And speaking of kissing, Trista makes the point that "Alex kissed seven girls, Aaron kissed twelve girls." Blah blah blah who's counting. Anyway, Trista kissed four. ["Boys, of course. Not girls." -- Wing Chun] Chris asks if she's in love, and she kind of sheepishly admits, "I am." A blonde with a flippy haircut stands and asks Trista if she's "every had the Big O." What year is this? Did we not just see a grown man peeing on his bed? What's with the sheepishness, suddenly? Is it because secretly no one on the production staff of this show really understands the female, er, "Big O," and so they have to keep it quiet and pretend it doesn't exist? Well then, if I may, I hope you won't mind if I spray this place in destigmatizer before I go: orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm.
Everyone feel better? After Trista's answer -- "There's [sic] two different kinds, and I have experienced one" -- I don't think she feels better at all. Two different kinds? Meaning, like, the one you give to yourself and the one that someone else gives you? Or is it even more textured than that? Because I'm kind of hip to all of this -- I know where the "Ensler" section is at my local independent bookstore -- but I don't have access to that equipment, like, ever. So maybe I'm missing something. And maybe I don't ever want to find it. ["Ask your mom. Actually, don't." -- Wing Chun]
Paul -- who apparently was on this show once -- busts in with a question of his own: "Now that the guy that you're with has seen the episodes and seen you getting romantic with the other guys, does he have a problem with it?" In fact, Trista responds, it has been hard. But that's it. She's booted by Chris, man of the spotlight. His mother must have made a few calls.
Who will Trista choose? Charlie or Ryan? What we get now is basically a preview for week's Episode of the Inevitable. Clips of Trista and Charlie falling in love, clips of Trista and Ryan enjoying poems about whales. Do you see how we can all save ourselves two hours week? It's pitted to be a battle between "the dreamer and the realist," and we return to find Chris hyperbolizing, "For the week across America, there will be a lot of opinions about who is most right for Trista. But in the end, she alone must make the choice." Tune in for the decision "we've all been waiting for." Chris thanks the guys for coming, smooths his pleats, and calls his mom to tell her he thinks the whole thing went just fine.