Loving to hate ”The Bachelor”
I’m about to make the most shocking admission…ever! I adore ABC’s The Bachelor. I’ve adored it since we first met back in 2002, when that greasy jerk Alex smeared hot fudge on Amanda during their overnight date. My passion continues to burn today, and not because I’m a romantic who feels a gooey rush when two people find ”love” after a rose-strewn ”journey”: I’d actually prefer that people who think it’s okay to use reality TV to find a mate not marry and reproduce. No, I love The Bachelor (and am deliriously excited about the new British Bachelor, Matt, right, who makes his debut on March 17 at 9:30 p.m.) because it is the most frightening horror anthology on television. Huddling on the couch, I yell at the TV like an agitated moviegoer urging an underwear-clad bimbo not to wander alone into the woods. ”No! Don’t give the first-impression rose to that 22-year-old bikini model with crippling daddy issues! Is no one adjusting this guy’s crazy-dar? For God’s sake, man, run!” And just when I can’t take another moment of terror, in walks host Chris Harrison with his comfortingly familiar script: ”Ladies, if you did not receive a rose tonight, please take a moment and say your goodbyes.” But I’ll never say goodbye to you, Bachelor. Not as long as there’s breath left in my lungs to scream.