An open letter to the women of the Bachelor:
Well it’s here, Bachelorettes – my personal Olympics. And like any Olympian, I came here to win. If you’re reading this, you’ve probably heard of me (Or this went viral, which is basically my goal for 2014, in which case, yay! I’m going back to sleep.) and you know this is what I do. I write about the Bachelor. I write about the clothes. I write about the drama. And, yes, over the course of the next few weeks, I’ll write about each of you.
Tonight we’ll make our first impressions, which will be based on three things:
- The dress you wear. Let me guess, it’s either a dress you wore in a pageant, something you got at Rent the Runway, or your prom dress, which you still fit into, in which case you’re toast.
- Your 15-second introduction to Juan Pablo. This will indicate just how much you will let the producers manipulate you throughout the show.
- How much you drink. Seriously. Everyone knows you are hammered by the end of the first rose ceremony and the way you hold your alcohol is a clear indicator of which of you will be most fun to hang out with after the show is over. (So no crying in the bathroom. See also: Jenna Burke.)
Now I know what you’re saying, “Dana you are so shallow.” To which I respond, “Uh duh. You new here?”
Look, you’re on a show that focuses so much on first impressions that they give out a fucking prize for it. Juan Pablo’s only giving out one first impression rose, but I’m giving out 27 of them. You’re welcome for that.
And, listen, Bachelorettes, I get it. When I was in my 20’s I did a lot of stupid stuff. I drank too much. I got emotional over boys. I did the polar bear plunge in December and faked hypothermia. But here’s the thing. In my 20’s, there was no Internet. No Instagram. No Twitter. So, except for my college roommates, my ex-boyfriends and my therapist, there is no proof that I was an emotional basket case.
You are not as lucky as me.
So I want you to remember a few things as we begin our journey:
- You chose to go on this show. I am sure when you are at home with your girlfriends you have a running commentary of what people say, do and wear. This is exactly the same thing. Only I don’t have that many friends, so I tell it to the Internet.
- I’m not going to make fun of your race, religion, weight or your family. (Hey they didn’t make you go on the show either.) Otherwise, all bets are off. If I say something that really, really burns you, here’s my email firstname.lastname@example.org Just email me and tell me that’s your Achilles heel and I’ll back off. Seriously, I’m not in the business of being an asshole. (It’s just a part time hobby.)
- I’m not the one who slept with your roommates while we were dating. Look, I know you were emotional and your boyfriend was cheating on you. But you did that stuff we’re about to see. I didn’t put you on the screen. I didn’t ply you with alcohol, and I didn’t make you go on TV and bare it all in the hopes of snagging a fella and maybe a walk-on hosting gig at E! (Well done, by the way, Ali Fedotowsky.) Point your anger where it rightfully belongs: at Rob Mills.
At the end of this, only one of you will snag the coveted prize of two Us Weekly covers. (The one where you get engaged and the one where you break it off.) But for the rest of you, this is your chance to really enjoy the journey. To have a laugh at your own expense, to not take yourself too seriously, and to realize it’s just a TV show. It’s edited. It’s manipulated. And it’s entertaining. And for the next 15 minutes, you’re the star.
What I’m saying is you can either be the joke or be in on the joke.
But either way, it’s a joke I’ll be telling.
I know. Most. Dramatic. Open. Letter. Ever.
The Bachelor premieres tonight. Don’t miss the live commentary on Twitter.