Vintonville - The life and times of a guy, his Lady-Friend, a Little Dude and a Little Sis.

I blame it on morbid curiosity. Last night, I made the mistake of voluntarily watching  The Bachelor finale. Specifically, a few minutes of the embarrassing “pick the chick you want in the sack and ditch the one you’d actually marry” moment.

And it was wincingly painful.

The only time I’ve ever felt more uncomfortable and awkward was the time Marina Middle School’s “Three Hotties”  caught me picking my nose in 7th grade English class– and honestly, watching a dude flubber while his fiance-reject “ugly cries” and sucks up to the camera may have eclipsed that. I cringed so hard I actually felt inner tension pulling me up my own butt.

Not that I don’t understand The Bachelor‘s appeal. As a kissing cousin to the man-mystery of why adjusted women call themselves Twi-Moms and long for a lanky, pale teenager with the mind of a dirty old man, The Bachelor simply swaps the vampire fantasy for a “real-life” dude who could hand-craft a diamond ring by squeezing a rock between his pecs– all while washing the kids’ laundry on his abs.

The Bachelor is simply a Lady-Friend oasis. A 60 minute escape from a reality where their bachelor has succumbed to a hairy belly that looks like a sack of pudding and the kids are A) crying about going to bed or B) wetting it. It’s a reminder of the rush and romance of their own courtship that lost a little bloom when fairy tale gave way to a doughier, “you didn’t flush!” reality.

To be fair, I’m sure the Ladies roll their eyes when they see a bunch of dudes horking pizza and”OOOOOH!!”ing while watching adrenalized “Eff”-dudes grapple and punch one another into oblivion in a chain-link octagon.

Still, after seeing/listening to 10 painful minutes of The Bachelor‘s verbal nausea (“You’re an amazing woman– I’ll always love you…but never tell the girl I picked, OK?”), there’s dudely solace in knowing if Octagon Carnage XXIIX ever hands out any eye rolling moments, it won’t be at my expense– it’ll be at the expense of the guy waking up with a fist-induced headache.

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