by Alex Tarrand
Daily Lobo
Hey ladies, need some quick cash? Tired of asking your parents how much they're going to leave you when they're gone, and them just not getting the hint to die? Well, if your one of those ambitious women who opens gift cards just to announce how much the check inside is worth, then you may be a competitive candidate for next year's voyeur series, "The Bachelor." But if you're interested, I recommend finishing out this season's final few episodes to see how it's done.
A tried and true tutorial for the next generation of goldiggers, "The Bachelor's" story is set something like this. Aaron is a 27 year old bank VP who is as bulked as Bret Farve, and having some trouble finding that special trophy wife. He also has a pension for slurring his words together to form sentences that don't work either independently or as a whole in a conversation.
Aaron was presented with a most toothsome harem - 25 lovely women who, for legal reasons, can't marry their own fathers but still want the same sort of oblivious security. At the end of each week a rose ceremony is held and roses are tossed like dripping meat to emaciated wolves or rather, those who are to stay on to the next episode. As consolation to the weeping losers, the winners rush to their aid with facetious hugs, vindictive smiles and blatant lies of how much they are really going to miss them.
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The remaining green eyed girls, upon the next episode, then get their individual date boxes determining what they are going to do next. One girl received a glass slipper and said that it made her feel like a princess. Good for her. I suppose a glass slipper is a bit daintier of a proposition then a twenty behind the Duke City Diner, but still no less forward in my mind.
Oddly enough, as the bachelor's wealth is made more and more apparent, the girls come to him cheaper and cheaper. Giving somewhat contrived sensuous hand baths in lavish hot tubs while his voice-over admits, "Well, I didn't really feel anything. But I wanted to."
In fact the only female who's made any emotional progress with him thus far is the psychologist, who spends the entirety of their dates undermining his confidence, talking down to him and consistently making demands and ultimatums in a hushed but aggressive tone.
So take note ladies, I suppose that's what men are really looking for in the end - a criminally insane, sharp-toothed woman to treat us like the bedwetting, deralictic Gumpians that they know we really are.
But what lies in store for our fickle bachelor once his final rose has been given? Well first there's love, then marriage. Then the half-torn pantyhose hanging in the shower and the eggnog-intoxicated mother-in-law calling him a retard at his own Christmas party as he tries to laugh it off and ignore the striking facial resemblance the old bat has to his wife. And then there's the little lady herself quietly stealing his antidepressants while he is in the yard, later slipping away to the seclusion of their shared quarters to pass gas during dinners and cocktail parties.
Here's to you, bachelor. Cheers, to the golden years ahead.
