Watching The Bachelor

I realize I'm a bit late to the Bachelor/Bachelorette party, considering this season marks the, oh, eleventy billionth incarnation. I didn't even intend to start watching. It was Monday night, and I was home, and I was trying to give Uncle Jesse's show a second chance, and the Bachelor was on right after. I got sucked in. But hey, it's better than the time I got sucked in to The Real Gilligan's Island, right? Yes, way better.

I get the feeling that this show has already seen its heyday. Last night was only the third episode, and we're already down to just six girls, from 25. It's like the producers aren't even trying to drag out the suspense. But they're milking the most out of the few truly embarrassing moments that have occurred, like the "my eggs are rotting" girl and the "I'm going to fashion an orange peel into fake teeth" girl, as well as a halfhearted attempt to cast Melana as a villain (okay, so all the other girls do sort of hate her. Is it because of her "edgy" skull-and-crossbones shirt?).

Actually, I'm kind of surprised how sympathetic I am to most of the women. I'd always assumed they'd be man-hungry, overly emotional bimbettes, but a lot of them do seem smart and accomplished. There must be something about the promise of true love in a magical, made-for-TV setting that makes emotions run high and reduces at least two people per episode to tears in front of a camera that always waits that extra moment before cutting away. Either that, or -- and here comes my big Bachelor theory -- it's the alcohol. There is not one single scene on this program in which the drinks are not flowing. Seemingly within an instant of arriving on any given location, everyone has a (free, neverending) cocktail in her hand. Which of course leads to things like karate chopping demonstrations, yelling "pull my f*cking hair!" at your fellow contestants, and throwing yourself at a hot-but-kinda-bland guy who probably isn't even your type (actually, he's everyone's type -- that's why he's so bland. Ooh, another epiphany!) -- not to mention a crying jag or two. It's like watching our home movies from college: amusing, occasionally uncomfortable, and not something I'd want nationally televised.

Oh, and someone totally needs to give Ali G. (the my-eggs-are-rotting doctor) her own show, where men compete to fulfill her desire to, as she so clinically puts it, "reproduce." It can be like a reality show version of Grey's Anatomy. Call it... Who Wants to Fertilize a Bachelorette?