Nowadays, my guilty pleasure is The Bachelor.
The premise is ridiculous.
Remember the Sharp Dressed Man video? Now, multiple those ZZ Top honeys by about eight, drop the electric guitars and you have The Bachelor.
Here’s how it works.
Everyone lands at some posh California property. And over several weeks, through a series of cocktail parties, make-out sessions and exotic dates, he hands out roses to the keepers and sends the jilted home, often in tears.
It’s kind of like eating your way to the bottom of a box Cracker Jacks, except the prize — a potential soulmate — is much sweeter.
Chris Harrison, a former Oklahoma City television sports reporter, plays the host, corralling all the hijinks in typical campy fashion. This season, viewers have watched malingerers and drama queens. They have seen women who drink who too much and wear too little. One competitor donned bottoms so skimpy that censors covered her bum with a black swatch.
Girls have played the widow card and the virgin card, with equal vigor, hoping for some sway.
It is desperation and it is television, but it hardly is reality.
We all need a release from time to time.
This seems to be mine.