FREAKY MONDAY: I'm new to The Bachelor, and perhaps I'm not long for it, but Spacewoman likes it and I enjoyed both heckling the participants and reading Sports Gal's recaps (joke format: "Bill says ___.") So I tuned in last night, expecting to live-blog it. Approximately 0:00 in, I threw in the towel, realizing I had nothing in particular to say other than "do all triathletes have abs that stick out past their chests? just looks weird to me."
Over the course of the next hour of predictably numbing cattiness, inconclusive proof or disproof of Asian fetishism (why did he ditch the cute, enthusiastic Amanda but keep the homely tuneless one and the boring ambivalent one?), gratuitous mud-wrestling, and jettisoning of the unevenly-botoxed Playmate and the sorority recruiter with no eyebrows (no, really!), I did have one cogent thought. Bachelor Andy is like the malevolent real-life version of the Tom Hanks character in Big. He walks like a child, bouncing on his toes and swaying stiffly from side to side. He reacts to his weird situation -- being ensconced in an adolescent fantasy, except with the expectation that he act with unadolescent maturity -- like a child, with ill-timed goofy grins and a stony you-caught-me-peeking-at-your-bikini rictus. He makes decisions like a kid who knows his maturity is being judged -- one for me (Chesty McBoobie, from South Carolina) and one for you (the deep one who won't stop talking about my dead uncle and her dead boyfriend). And he says really weird things that sound like what a clueless 12-year-old might think an adult in his situation might say: "women and fast cars are sexy." Half-right, slugger! So I really hope this all ends with him shriveling up in his suit and shuffling home while an appropriate Bachelorette stand-in for Elizabeth Perkins is left to ponder her inadvertent pedophilia.