The Official Bachelor Blog of Trump's Second Year in Office // Week Four



Welcome back to The Bachelor, the country music version of Rock of Love.

Many people have of late been asking me about my creative process as it pertains to this account of love. How do I so authentically capture the subtleties of Arie's emotional pallor? How do my bold predictions come to manifest themselves weeks later? How have I become the most trusted news source in a world of journalists whose mad cries of "Objectivity!" belie a penchant for twisting the truth until it resembles one of the Space Fleet monsters from the first episode of the fourth season of "Black Mirror"?

Let me tell you this: exactly one half hour before the episode begins, I take a bottle of red wine to the face. Then, I open a new bottle of red wine and sit down to play witness. I write down words that occur to me as the two hours pass — "lamp," "Michigan," "jailbait," "Stockholm Syndrome" for example — and then in the morning, I piece those words together to form an emotional collage, sort of like a Monet painting, only there's a point to it.

Last night, my creative process failed me. Blame it on the position of Mars, or a sudden, jarring realization that I haven't been attracted to a man since the New York Times ruined them for me, or maybe all the vegetables I've been eating lately have cut off the blood flow to my brain. You can blame it on any number of these things, but deep down I know it's because the government shut down ended yesterday which means that, once again, at any moment, nuclear war will bring the civilized world as we know it to an abrupt end.

Still, here I am, honoring my commitment to the hundreds of millions of Internet users who dutifully log in to an inclusive wedding website to read my work, even as many might say my message threatens the very sanctity of marriage.

It's incredible, isn't it, the lengths to which your brain will go to protect you. I believe my inability to remember basic facts about a television episode I watched 12 hours ago is nothing short of evolutionary self-preservation.

Still, here I am, honoring my commitment to the hundreds of millions of Internet users who dutifully log in to an inclusive wedding website to read my work, even as many might say my message threatens the very sanctity of marriage.

That being said, I believe it was Seinne who wrangled herself the first one-on-one date of last night. The date took place in the wilderness of Lake Tahoe where Arie has squirreled away his brothel of women for the foreseeable future. I visited Lake Tahoe once, long ago, in the throes of heartbreak. The object of my unrequited affections was there as well, and I had to pretend to enjoy the trees and the dirt even as he, despite being much less smart than I and of roughly equal physical attractiveness, showed no interest in pursuing a romantic relationship.

Seinne, who is also much smarter than and of roughly equal physical attractiveness as her Lake Tahoe love interest, had much more luck than me. Despite having never been educated past the ninth grade or something, Arie demonstrates a cool confidence around a woman who would intimidate most men. The two of them go windsurfing, or whatever that sport is called, and then they drink champagne by a lake of shining waters.

At dinner, Seinne tells Arie that, growing up, she never saw women who looked like her get the man in love stories such as most animated Disney films and movies like "Forrest Gump" or "Shallow Hal." Aries gives her the rose, and makes her the unbreakable promise that "maybe" this will be her love story.

Back at the mansion, everybody except my mortal enemy, Bekah, is invited on a group date to go hiking. The ladies meet up in the middle of the woods with a survival guide who makes them all pee into a water bottle so they will not die of dehydration in case the cast and crew get lost in the Tahoe wilderness for weeks. The only remaining Lauren makes it clear that she has no intention of drinking her own pee, even if the alternative is certain death. I'm beginning to understand why this revolutionary spirit is the last Lauren standing.

The ladies break up into groups and are tasked with finding their way to a champagne hot tub party in the middle of the Lake Tahoe wilderness. There's so much drama that could happen during this pilgrimage — broken legs, a creature from the Upside Down mauling one of the contestants, one of the groups stumbling across a hiker who has been missing for weeks and is on the brink of death — but the only notable thing that happens is Krystal talks a lot of shit about the other ladies.

They eventually all find their way to the watery depths of the champagne hot tub party, where Arie has to divide his attention between 13 beautiful women whose menstrual cycles have all synced up. He fails, as the Bible prophecied, and the dagger sinks deeper into the body of Krystal's relationship with the other women.

Unfortunately, the next day brings a one-on-one date with Bekah, the teen queen whose thinly veiled contempt for women echoes through the northern California canyons. Arie and Bekah ride horses to — you guessed it! — A hot tub overlooking trees and dirt. This moment is the last truly uncomplicated moment of their relationship, as she will later reveal to him that she was too young for preschool when he lost his virginity.

To Arie’s credit, he freaks out a little bit when she reveals her age. He asks a lot of questions that really make sense like, do you like going to bed at 10 PM on Fridays? It's clear that Arie was a little tramp when he was 22 and I respect him for being concerned that Bekah also has an opportunity to be a little tramp. Bekah assures him that everybody in her family gets married pretty much as soon as it's legal for them to do so and Arie, despite cloying reservations which will absolutely play a part in Bekah's eventual departure, keeps her around for yet one more day.

Because Arie is a merciful God, he cancels the cocktail party. He already knows who he is going to say bye-bye to. Krystal, who believes her character has been thrown into question by the other ladies, manages to make everyone hate her even more when she interrupts the rose ceremony for a minute alone with her, and everybody else's, boyfriend Arie. She whispers a plea not to give up on her just yet and Arie honors that request by granting her one more week of national humiliation.

Join us next week to find out if Krystal is a fitness instructor or working for a revolutionary group that seeks to subvert the American oligarchy by infiltrating the most acute public spaces of neoliberal capitalism (or both!).

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Becky Scott is a Brooklyn-based writer who enjoys buffalo wings and writing journalistic longform pieces on The Bachelor. 

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