|Blue Suede Douche|
One day, when I’m feeling sad, when I need to turn that frown upside down, I will just hunker down in front of my DVR and replay the moment that Emily tells Ryan that he and his rose-free lapel are getting the first ticket out of Croatia.
It’s rare enough in this life when a douchebag gets his comeuppance. But to have a camera actually trained on him as it happens. To watch his douchey little face, with its fancy little beard and smirky little smirk, go from cocky, to concerned, to confused, to really confused, and finally to downright desperate—well, it was gratifying to say the least.
“That was very shocking,” Ryan said, as the news finally sunk in. “I’m very, very surprised.” And then, just in case you didn’t catch his drift: “I would not have seen that coming.” (And then, as God is my witness: “I’m baffled.”)
Of course, you gotta love the guy’s outsized confidence (and by “love” I mean “hate”): “I can’t help but to think you’re making the wrong choice,” he said.
As for Emily, she couldn’t just leave a perfect moment alone. She couldn’t just let him sulk home, leaving a trail of Drakkar Noir and broken dreams in his wake.
Noooo, she had to confess to Ryan that she was unsure about her decision and even suggest that maybe he was too perfect for her. (Ugh.)
But in the end, he was poleaxed, adiosed, made redundant.
“Trust yourself,” he said, hugging Emily goodbye. “I mean, you’re making the wrong choice. . .” (Then he added, “Be well. . . I mean, contract a deadly disease” and “Enjoy yourself. . .I mean, have a terrible time.”)
Okay, a few more thoughts on the episode, in no particular order.
•This tank top of Ryan’s alone should’ve been grounds for his immediate dismissal.
|Puts the "wife" in "wife beater"|
•Speaking of sartorial choices, when a Bachelor wears a hoodie on the couch—drink! *Collapses into alcoholic coma*
•Nothing says Croatia quite like “The Highland Games” and men in kilts.
•Speaking of Croatia, has 3D technology not yet come to that fine republic? (Brave is in 3D. . .) I like my torturously-inserted product placements to be accurate.
•Oh yeah, Travis is gone. I’d miss him, if I'd ever known he was there to begin with.
•The time has come to talk about Doug, the couch, and what will hereafter be known as Ass Gate.
First of all, it’s possible I misunderstood Doug. I thought his whole humble “I’m just a boy named Doug” routine was fake. But the man has no game whatsoever.
Exhibit A: Ass Gate.
He’s sitting on the couch with Emily, and she has essentially readjusted her position to facilitate a makeout sesh, and he lets his hand rest in the purgatorial region between her lower back and her ass and his hand just . . .sits there.
Doug’s hand is ready to party, but Doug isn’t.
This was sad enough, but made truly bizarre by the fact that the Bachelorette producers became obsessed with Doug’s hand.
No less than five times (I counted!) did the camera pan to Doug’s hand, resting uselessly on Emily’s lower back.
It was as if the cameraman was saying, “Doug’s Hand Has No Game Either.”
•Speaking of sad, poor Chris Harrison: “Emily, the extra rose you asked for”—as he hands her the rose, waiter-style, on a silver platter—must be the scene he plays over and over again in his head as he contemplates the abyss.
|"Too cool for struggle face"|
•The biggest problem with the final 6? They’re all relatively likeable.
Now that I know what a loser Doug is, I can't actually hate him anymore.
Handsome, wholesome, blond, athletic Sean is so far removed from anyone I’ve ever known in my actual life, he may as well be from a different planet—but he seems like a sweet enough fellow.
While Jef strikes me as a bit of a fraud—the skateboard, the James Dean hair, the mysteriously missing “f,” the skinny tie all may scream hipster, but I think deep down he’s a mainstream guy—I still can't help but to like him.
Tall drink of hotness Arie is loveable, despite his advanced-placement-level neediness.
Chris neither attracts nor repels me, so there's that.
And John? Well, he carries his dead grammy and grampy's funeral cards in his pocket, for Christ's sake.
To be honest, much as I hated him, without Ryan, a boring season may have just gotten boring-er.