You know what’s crazy? I’ll Tell you what’s Crazy™
The Bachelorette.
16 buff dudes. One over zealous hottie.
Add wine, a pool, some palm trees and playful, suggestive games and well, let’s just say you’ve either got brain damage or a hit abc show.
I turned this show on accidentally.
My girlfriend chides me, telling me I turned it on purposely.
NO I DID NOT.
The fact that this visual mutation is on my TV is truly an accident.
It’s an like mowing down zombies, dressed in black, walking into a poorly lit cross walk at night is an accident.
The show is just smarmy. It leaves a ring around the bath tub of my mind.
It is mutating on my plasma screen like toxic waste algae reproducing on the inside of a fish tank.
I didn’t turn on the show. I don’t watch the show. I don’t like the show.
But there it is, like a knock on the door from a traveling Bible Salesman.
“Go away. Get off my lawn. Can’t you read the sign; no solicitors!”
T and A and jiggling man parts are filling my living room.
It’s like a sexual castanet.
I stare at the phosphorescent burn on the screen. It is hurting my soul like a sponge filled with tainted holy water.
I try to change the channel.
I press the remote, but nothing happens.
I shake it and press again.
Nothing.
I bang it on my hand.
Nothing.
What the …
The batteries are dead, I assume.
This is God’s cruel technological joke.
So I stare at the screen.
This is what it must have been like to go to the circus and stare at the bearded lady.
You want to be turn away, but you can’t.
STEP RIGHT UP …
This is the lowest common denominator of TV.
It’s the welcome mat of wretched excess.
So what am I seeing?
Big brutal beefy bachelors, wearing big white diapers.
Well not so much diapers, more like sumo wrestling clothes, which on these guys look like diapers.
So I am watching these diaper wearing douches and I am starting to feel a tad uncomfortable in my own living room.
I glance around.
The drapes are open.
What if the neighbor walking the dog goes by and looks in and sees the Bachelorette on my TV.
I can hear the whispers now.
“That’s right, Mary. He was watching the Bachelorette and there were all these beef cake men wearing no pants.”
For shame.
I am now looking at the TV trying to figure out how to change the channel manually.
Have you ever changed the channel manually?
This ain’t 1987 Jack. This ain’t your dad’s analog TV.
This is 2015 and the remote is the key to the channel changing world.
While I’m fondling my television, I notice the story line changing from awkward to inappropriate sexual lunacy.
The bachelors are macho dudes wearing adult diapers and they are suddenly combating Sumo wrestlers.
The Sumo wrestlers are Japanese Mountains of Flesh. They are massive, rotund, gravitational forces of humanity.
One of the Sumos weighs 600 pounds.
He is so big, the bachelors, who are pretty beef cake themselves, look like shrinking shrubs in front of a mansion.
The baby Bachelors rush the Sumos and bounce off like super balls on linoleum.
The Bachelorette pops up. She is cute, but kind of dumb, like a brain-damaged whack-a-mole.
The Bachelorette is perfect for this show however.
She is perky and looks great in a crop top and short shorts.
She is encouraging the men to fight for her honor telling them it will be “fun.”
The guys don’t look like they are having fun.
So they assume the position and they slap their feet on the mats and their man junk starts flopping out of their Sumo diapers.
Suddenly the show puts these fuzz filters over their asses and their crotches.
The fuzz filters are getting bigger and fuzzier and I wonder just how much junk these dudes are exposing.
The bachelorette pretends to hide her eyes behind her hands saying”I’ve seen everything Joey’s got to offer.”
She smiles. The dudes smile. The Sumos smiles.
What the hell is going on here, I think.
Then the group of diaper clad Hunks travel to a California mall.
They ride in on bicycles wearing dainty kimonos.
A group of shoppers from Kansas applaud.
They take off their robes and the crowd winces. Apparently there is a lot of stuff hanging out of their Sumo diapers.
Yikes.
I see young girls turn away blushing.
I see mothers cover the eyes of smaller children.
I know it’s a TV show. I know it’s a popular TV show.
But it’s just not my kind of TV show.
I am certainly not the demo.
This show is looking for women 18-54.
By the looks of the beef, the brawn, and the junk-cicles swinging in the breeze, this show is throwing darts and hitting bulls eyes.
Just as another man part pops out of another Sumo diaper, I find new batteries.
I put them in and hit 206 on my Direct TV.
A baseball game pops on and I feel a strange sense of relief.
As I watch a line out to third, I realize that the audience watching the Bachelorette is the very target demo we are trying to attract to our news product.
I sigh loudly.
We work all day gathering news, and checking facts, and hoping we inform and win and don’t get sued.
And for what?
So a television audience turned on by man junk and loose sumo diapers will hopefully watch our news?
I wonder is this really worth it?
It would be easier to put on a news thong and just read the news with our news junk flying free.
Breaking news and hanging news junk.
Now that’s a ratings bonanza.
Life’s Crazy™