The Bachelor

If you look up “pathetic” in a dictionary published after 1999 you should see “The Bachelor” somewhere in the definition. Oh, by the way, does anyone else out there think Bryant Gumbel needs a sand wedge applied to the back of his big fuckin’ head about fifty times? Anyhoo…”The Bachelor” is a kick in the pills for anyone who enjoys movies. It’s so bad in fact, it makes “C.H.U.D.” look like a winner. It takes two of the most unfunny things in the world, marriage and people from San Francisco, and puts them in a movie that tries sooooo hard to be funny. So…”the Bachelor” is about this guy…something or other Shannon (his last name) who inherits his grandfather’s billiards table company…and 100 million duckets…or he will if he gets married by 6:30 p.m. on his 30th birthday. Boooooy Howdy! Don’t you know the hijinks are about to begin! The only reason his grandfather is dead in the first place is because the kid fucks up proposing to his girlfriend of three years so badly, that when poppy hears about it, he drops dead.

What a dumb fuck! Why would anyone ever try to buy the cow when the milk is already free? I wouldn’t marry Shaniqua…or any woman for that matter as long as they’re givin’ up th’ snappy-nappy-dugout. And if they’re not givin’ up the booger, they’re gone anyway.

So where were we? The schlub goes to the reading of the whacky will and must get married within 48 hours. He clumsily proposes again now that he needs the ho to get the ol’ man’s cabbage. He fucks that up too. Now if the only thing standing between Rufus and 100 million scheckels is my bitch doin’ what I say, I’ll tell you this: she’d have been my wife or she’d be fertilizing my back yard.

You can guess what happens in the interim…all his ex-girlfriends refuse to marry him despite his 100 million dollar dowry. How funny!!! We get to meet each defective freak he’s poked. In the end his inept friend puts a classified ad in the paper and every woman in the State of California except Darva Conger’s narrow ass shows up to get hitched. Eventually his ho shows up and marries him. Whooptie-fuckin-do. Everybody rides off into the happy-ass-white-picket-fence-two-and-a-half-kids-white-suburbia-dream-world. I’ve quoted him before, but some famous cracker writer once said: “That’s not writing, that’s typing.” Someone in hollywood (and there’s a substantial list of the guilty at needs a lobotomy for making this ass-blast.

The Bachelor gets 25 1/2 Swayzes:

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