Television Greatness: Bachelor Pad

I’m serving Ramen for dinner tonight. And the Dynamic Duo shall go bath-less. Maybe even book-free for the evening. I know what you’re thinking. These are signs of the apocalypse. Rest easy. It’s not the apocalypse. It IS the premiere of “Bachelor Pad”, the single, best reality series on television.

I don’t want to miss even a minute. I whet my appetite by watching 2+ hours of the season finale for “The Bachelorette” last night. I watched all season long as the love between Emily and Jef (one “f) grew, until it was almost as big as Jef’s hair on that final trip to Curacao. Who knew boy hair could get that big? Jef was looking exactly like my mom whenever she visits the East Coast and gets her Lionel Richie ‘do going. That’s okay. That proves that Emily loves Jef for the right reasons and not for his pompadour or his skinny jeans.

I knew Emily’s heart all along, which is why I won the bet with my guy about who the season winner was gonna be. This bet is also why I will be dining next weekend at an establishment that has more forks on the table than my entire silverware drawer at home and not at my fella’s favorite fish n’ chips joint. As great as “The Bachelorette” season was, “Bachelor Pad” promises to be that much better.

The premise of “Bachelor Pad” is simple: around 20 girls and guys live in a mansion, pair up and compete in contests. The couple who wins the most, and advances to the end, bags a large amount of money. The rules are simple. The intrigue is not because it isn’t just 20 random girls and guys picked to live in the house. It’s 20 failed contestants from previous seasons of “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette”.

As contestants, the producers pick fan favorites and the most unstable. They’re all beautiful, even the men, especially the men. They’re all single, as they’ve only recently been dumped on national television. And most are not the sharpest tools in the shed, which makes their attempts at coalition-building – usually conducted in bikinis and banana hammocks in the hot tub – particularly great. I think we should have our world leaders give this a try. I bet if Hillary Clinton had to coalition-build in a bikini in a hot tub she’d be motivated to compromise. Anything to get out of there as quickly as possible. That Nicolas Sarkozy looks like a groper for sure.

If I had planned better I would have organized my version of a fantasy football league: Fantasy “Bachelor Pad”. I would, of course, be the judge who awards points based on skilled level of play. Instead of looking for quarterbacks scoring touchdowns, I’d be awarding points to contestants based on the following achievements: hot-tubbing nude, kissing multiple partners, bedding multiple partners, sporting clearly fake hair or body parts, the list would go on and on.

I’m going to spend this “Bachelor Pad” season taking notes and compiling this very list. And next season? The league will be open for business. We can wear jerseys, eat nachos and smack talk each other via Skype.* Just like the big boys. Only without the light beer and burping.

*Is this how real “Fantasy Football” works? In my mind, it is.