So much has happened in the 10 interminable months since our last online offering from the Bachelor School curriculum: We've opened satellite campuses in Studio City, in a defunct Yogurt Odyssey stall in the Arizona State University student union food court, and next door to a modeling agency in Manhattan's meatpacking district that charges aspiring beautiful people $500 per "portfolio submission" (i.e., e-mails to ads in the back of the Village Voice seeking "open-minded masseuses"), to maximize our reach into the places where hopeful contestants obviously need our educational services the most. We've explored a promising international partnership with the reputable bride-importation concern AnastasiaDate.com. And, in an effort essential to the ongoing success of both our flourishing academic institution and the Bachelor franchise itself, we've had our best minds deconstructing the tragic and completely unexpected dissolution of Ben Flajnik's ForeverUnion with Courtney "The Model" Robertson, the greatest competitor in the history of televised dating shows. It is only through noble failures like these that we can improve the quality of our product, and, ultimately, the human species itself.
Courtney The Bill Belichick of Bachelorettes’s reign as HBIC on The Bachelor has come to end. The way she captivated all that have been exposed to her particular brand of bitchy genius makes her exit feel much more like an intermission than the final curtain. On the flip side, watching the tanned and tatted crew from Joisey pack up their Shore Store shirts and scatter to their native tri-state enclaves had a feeling of finality. I'm sure that MTV will trot out the Seaside Seven for one more go 'round — but America’s feelings about this show pretty much mirror the cast’s feelings about the roof-deck hot tub. Both were super-exciting novelty items at first. Now, the novelty has worn off and they feel like neglected relics of parties past that pose a serious health risk and should be avoided at all costs. I have watched my last episode of Jersey Shore.
Miley Cyrus vs. Jennifer Lawrence In ... The Hemsworth Games: "While cuddling up to her boyfriend of nearly three years, Hunger Games hunk Liam Hemsworth, the former teen queen couldn't help but notice that her man's hands were clutching his phone. Miley saw that he was texting his co-star, Jennifer Lawrence. She was livid!" This article is already better than The Marriage Plot. With Miley's "worst fear becoming a reality" she's become "desperate to keep Liam," getting tattoos with him and obsessing daily over the state of her hot body. "While it would have annoyed Miley to see Liam, 22, texting any woman late at night, the jealous star's blood boiled to learn that he was chatting with the beautiful, talented Jennifer." That's right, Hollywood, only one beautiful talented girl allowed at a time! "Miley is threatened by Jennifer's career and confidence." After Miley's last thespian effort, The Last Song, tanked, "Jennifer has replaced her as Hollywood's new It Girl. And now Miley's terrified that she'll replace her as Liam's girlfriend too." Not to worry, Miley, Lawrence is smitten with her X-Men: First Class co-star Nicholas Hoult. But shooting the next two Hunger Games movies in the fall will isolate Lawrence and Hemsworth from their partners, and "their relationship will have another Miley-free opportunity to blossom." The panicked Cyrus "is not going to let him go so easily!"
So it's all over. One of the final two bachelorettes arrived at the mountaintop, only to be denied the nourishing rays of Ben Flajnik's continuing romantic regard and banished (probably via ski lift; copters are for closers) to the chalet of loneliness to soak in a lukewarm hot tub shaped like a broken heart, wondering where it all went wrong. The other got her proposal with the majestic Matterhorn bearing witness to our Bachelor's declaration of Forever Love ("You are my Forever" shall certainly go down as this generation's "You complete me," though it must be delivered with a hair flip to honor its author), a proposal bearing a solemn promise of at least, like, five more dates and a joint after the Final Rose appearance, and the total satisfaction of knowing her perfectly executed strategy delivered a victory in The Game that was never in doubt. In this, the final installment of blog-based Bachelor School lessons before I have to prepare for the launch of my consulting firm for future Rose Collectors (you really need to see the 30-foot ice sculpture of Chris Harrison in the courtyard; keeping it intact in the Los Angeles heat is an astronomical expense, but worth every Cougarlife.com promotional dollar), we'll take a look at the lessons that can be gleaned from this season's thrilling endgame.
We don’t score reunion shows here at the GRTFL. Why? No idea, it is just a dumb rule that’s grandfathered in like the extra point in football or “Thou shalt not kill” in that God book. That said, I am not going to let an insignificant detail like “no one scored” get in the way of oversharing my thoughts on the hornet's swarm of hussie hatred that was released this week on The Bachelor: Women Tell All. Behold, “Things I Learned While Watching The Bachelor: Women Tell All”:
During a masterfully manipulative and tear-soaked apology on last night's predictably drama-crammed "The Women Tell All" special, Courtney, confronted with a litany of her various misdeeds by a frothing mob of TV sister-wives, wailed, "Nobody gives you a manual on how to be on The Bachelor!" She's right: There is no manual, yet, at least in the traditional sense. Though Courtney is almost certainly planning to publish a best-selling, tactical treatise after next week's finale (remember: The outcome is irrelevant; she's already won by making herself the undisputed star of the season), my consulting firm for aspiring Bachelor contestants has already been beating her to market for weeks now by harnessing the power of the Internet. Our online "teaser lessons" have already been "downloaded" over 300 million times, and pre-enrollment for our first seminar, "Total Rose Domination: Unleash the Ruthless Flower-Hoarder Within," is so high that we may have to relocate it from the L.A. Convention Center to a three-venue simulcast at Staples Center, the Nokia Theatre, and the Rose Bowl. (Look at them doing the branding for us!) But enough with the self-promotion (that course is still being drafted, anyway), and on to the learning. While "The Women Tell All" episodes might have been conceived as series-stretching, catfighting filler, they've evolved into a crucial part of each season's narrative, and as such, there's a wealth of strategic knowledge to be harvested from each. So let's dive into last night's installment and see what we can learn. You're only moments away from taking your next set of baby steps toward a televised temporary engagement! Get excited!
Nothing happened on Jersey Shore this week. Nothing. I can honestly look you right in the eye and tell you that we've established a stupid scoring system that rewards reality TV cast members for drinking, fighting, and coitus-denying — yet the entire cast of Jersey Shore scored a mere five points. Five points. You probably scored more than five GRTFL points at Thursday happy hour yesterday. I couldn’t be more disappointed by a show that just a year ago was a frenzy of fisticuffs and freakiness. Thank god for The Bachelor. The Bachelor is like a Justin Timberlake song; I don’t want to like it, I pretend I don’t like it, but I can’t get it out of my head. The Bachelor is so dumb, so wrong, and so damn American I want to print every frame of it on paper so I can eat it and have it sit in my tummy. If you aren’t watching The Bachelor, start immediately: It is like Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea — it’s about nothing and everything all at the same time.
The Bachelor Saga Continues: "As quickly as the snowcapped mountains faded in the distance, so did Flajnik's feelings for his betrothed. As Courtney Robertson's abhorrent behavior unfolded on TV, Ben began having issues with what he saw. Instead of talking to Courtney about it, he just started avoiding her. They haven't split, but he basically stopped talking to her. He buried his head in the sand." HEALTHY! "And then he turned his attention to other women." Back in San Francisco, Flajnik has been "cheating on Robertson" with "three different women." I mean, he did say he always wanted to have sex with a model, not that he wanted to grow old with one. "He's drinking and hitting on women, and pretty much acting like a single guy," hanging out at Bay Area dive bars "teeming with Bud Light cans, free popcorn, and adoring Flajnik fans wearing skimpy clothing." Ladies Love Cool Flajnik. After the bar it's All Star Donuts, where Ben picked up a dozen. "I'm well-versed in doughnutspeak," he supposedly said (what?). After taking one girl home, he was spotted with another the very next day. "Ben went on The Bachelor to gain fame, money, and exposure for his business. Why not complete the package by choosing a model named Courtney who is nothing more than arm candy? He has always been an egomaniac and narcissistic." Meanwhile Courtney is finding that turnabout is fair play.
I don't want to brag, but early interest in my still-theoretical, but soon-to-be-all-too-real consulting firm for aspiring Bachelor contestants has been so positive that I've already reserved the West Hall at the Los Angeles Conference Center (yeah, you read that correctly — the baller hall — we're not playing around) for a very special informational seminar about our invaluable Bachelorette-coaching services. I'll say no more for now, except that we'll be offering a TOTALLY FREE "personal branding" workshop in which we'll teach crucial skills like:
Creatively misspelling your name to stand out from all the other Caseys/Lindsays/Skylars/Britneys and making it easier for the Bachelor to keep you distinct in his mind.
Erasing "aspiring actress" from the Occupation line on your application and filling in a more respectable alternative like "dental hygienist," "real estate broker," or "executive escort."
It's all happening — get onboard now, or watch in mascara-decimating horror as your potential future husband hands a rose to XeniFer, the "floral consultant" from Terre Haute, while you continue living a life of shrieking desperation undocumented by a small team of SteadiCam operators. It's your very, very lonely funeral, ma'am.
Rihanna and Chris: "Of the 100 people gathered gathered to ring in Rihanna's 24th birthday at a Beverly Hills mansion the day before Valentine's Day, only one stood out: her abusive ex-boyfriend, Chris Brown." A witness says, "Rihanna and Chris were very much together. He was touching her butt, rubbing her arm, and they kept dancing with each other. They seemed like a couple to everyone." But while they have "been covertly hooking up for almost a year" they have finally "become more open about their mutual affection." A Riri pal says, "Chris was a strong first love for her that she wants to hold on to. They had a violent, stormy relationship. Her friends obviously think this reunion is crazy — but nobody can tell Rihanna what to do." And since it was her birthday, nobody said an unkind word about Brown's presence, who "kept his gaze on Rihanna until past 4 am," saying "Isn't Rihanna beautiful?" to fellow party guest LaLa Vasquez Anthony. Chris "will always love Rihanna" and would drop girlfriend Karrueche Tran (whose face he recently had tatted on his arm) if Rihanna asked — but Rihanna prefers the control and power she currently has over him, even if Chris still has the upper hand. "She likes the loose nature of it and she doesn't want a boyfriend. This is dangerous, and she likes playing with fire."
Over the last couple weeks, response to my brazenly advertorial posts about the consulting firm I'll soon be establishing for forward-thinking, rapaciously ambitious future Bachelor contestants has been so overwhelming that I've gotten a little ahead of myself and already begun living the extravagant lifestyle that's surely coming to me. The Bentley (custom plates: FINLR$E) and cutting-edge loft space in downtown L.A. have already been leased, the lobby Cristal fountain designed, the yacht (The Final Ro$e) tricked out with a below-decks karaoke stadium. Shit, as they say, is getting real. There's just one problem with these champagne wishes and caviar cream-dreams: The single greatest tactical mind in the history of fake-engagement competition genre is not in our employ, she's actually competing on the show. And so in the interest of (a) further advertising the future services of this incredible soon-to-be business and (b) undermining a dangerous potential competitor's entry into this lucrative consulting space, this week we're going to go to the tape and break down Courtney the Model's mind-blowing strategic masterstroke from last night's episode: The Warm-Up Wedding. The video's embedded above. Watch it again as we prepare to deconstruct the staggering brilliance of the boldest gambit in Bachelor history.
Last week, The Bachelor contestant Blakeley's tragically heartfelt misadventure in romantic scrapbooking cost her a six-month lifetime of happiness with floppy-haired soul-mate craver Ben Flajnik, prompting me to potentially cost myself untold millions of dollars by sharing — free of charge! — a very important lesson from my soon-to-be established consulting firm for prospective ABC bachelorettes. (Don't feel too bad for me: I've already submitted an expense report for "untold millions of dollars" to ESPN. Check's already in the mail.) But my heart was broken anew Monday night as I watched obvious mistake after obvious mistake being made by the remaining contestants as they tried, and failed, to outflank pucker-faced tactical genius Courtney the Model. And so, at the risk of another potential seven-figure loss to my net worth, I'm sharing more tips from Bachelor School. Let's call them Eight Simple Rules for Dating My Dumb-Ass Bachelor, gleaned from last night's episode — and hope disposable TV love can be saved by my extreme financial sacrifice.
If I ever follow through on my threat to establish a consulting company for prospective contestants on The Bachelor, the first lesson will be a simple one: Put out. And then there will be several weeks of variations on that Golden Rule ("Put out quickly"; "Put out again, to remind him of the first put-out"; "Put out on the group date"; "Put out a little more on the solo date"; "Put out ALL THE WAY in the Fantasy Giving It Up Suite," and so on), but eventually, if the PayPal transmissions continue to go through, we'll eventually cover perhaps the most crucial advice of all:
If you're a true Bachelor fanatic — and let's be real here, you are, and you're rightfully ashamed of that fact, except you're not, the show is amazing — there's a pretty good chance you're already acquainted with the sublime Tumblr Forever Alone: Faces of Rejected Bachelorettes, the Internet's leading repository of screenshots of the rose-bereft. If not, you owe it to yourself to spend a few minutes scrolling down its seemingly bottomless gallery of abject misery, which preserves for all time the worst moments of some misguided, love-craving twentysomethings' lives, at least until they suffer an actual tragedy away from TV cameras, an open bar, and a rented mansion populated by homicidal sorority sisters.
