By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
So, in reality, the Bachelor folks are doing women a service. They went out and found the cream of the generic dude crop, gave him a wardrobe assistant and created a dating environment in which women are incredibly unlikely to be slipped a roofie and left for dead behind a dance club. Everybody wins—except, of course, those who lose.
Sadly, more than a week went by and I hadn't heard from the keepers of my soul mate. In the meantime, I'd had a tonsillectomy and was spending my days doped up on liquid painkillers, which helped dull the pain of knowing I'd never get to appear on network TV in a hot tub with 20 other women and one dude. But then, late one evening, my cell phone rang. Los Angeles area code. They wanted me to send in a video.
In my delirium, I managed to round up a camera and squeak out five minutes of Andrea's Awesome Life, starring me, my two cats and a swimsuit I've worn twice in four years. But I'd lost 10 pounds courtesy of the tonsillectomy (existence of a benevolent God confirmed) and figured it would help make a convincing argument against allowing a 23-year-old crazy cat lady to turn into a 93-year-old crazy cat lady dying alone in her smelly apartment.
Then again, the odds aren't so good for Bachelor couples, who have a 33 percent success rate. Counting the two who just united on the Bachelor: Rome, just three of nine pairs are still together.
Of course, I can't tell you what happened next, because that would mean the potential turnover of soul, firstborn, stuffed sheep, etc., but that's how the reality television game goes, right? You commit to having your mind numbed on a regular basis by mindless chatter and vague promises of nudity, only to be disappointed in the end when you find the whole thing's over and you never really cared in the first place. Oh, wait, that's not reality television. That's dating.