No, I am not talking about the superbowl.
My Chemical Romance and I used to watch a lot of TV shows together, but then we got Netfl*x and a Wii and the kids took over the TV (we purposely have only one main TV so we could spend “family time” together ::cough::cough). Now we watch Modern Family together and occasionally Glee — and recently My Chemical Romance was doing dishes and he said, “Hey, put on Oprah!”
I love a man who is comfortable enough with his own sexuality that he wants to watch Oprah.
But last night was time for the worst two hours of TV per week: The Bachelor.
Teen Mom (Original or 2.0, Now With Even More Teen Angst!) could occupy that spot, but I forgive them because, well duh, they’re dumbass teenagers.
The Bachelor is so painful because, well, duh, they’re grown-ass women.
I used to watch it because I believed in true love and kissing frogs and rainbows with pots of gold at the end. Then I got married.
I watch it now because it’s pop culture (although I do manage to skip American Idol every single season. I watched one or two episodes in the early seasons. I saw someone sing. I thought, I’m not a huge fan of attending concerts; why am I watching this in the first place? I never turned it on again.)
But The Bachelor. Last night, Chantel O was on a date with Brad in Costa Rica, and it started to rain all over their picnic-by-a-fire-while-being-fanned-with palm-fronds dinner, and one of those two morons said something like, “This is just like real life–”
And I couldn’t hear anything else because of the sound of my own shrieking, like the fishwife I am,
OH SURE, IT’S JUST LIKE A REAL LIFE! HA!
REAL LIFE IS A DATE IN COSTA FREAKIN’ RICA WHEN YOU HAVE FIVE KIDS AND A MORTGAGE AND A CAR PAYMENT AND EVERYONE HAS THE FLU AND YOUR KITCHEN FLOOR IS STICKY BECAUSE THE DOG THREW UP HER DINNER AND THEN LICKED IT UP!
And then My Chemical Romance put me to bed.