Reality Check

I apologize for being MIA for so long. I have been utterly absorbed with my move, the day J.O.B., freelance clients/work, and The Bachelor. As a general rule, I refuse to watch so-called reality shows, but I admit, as soon as I got a glimpse of that bitch Michelle and her skanky, back-stabbing ways, I was hooked.

For you virgins, The Bachelor is the bloody gangland shoot-'em-up you can't veer your eyes from. I work my schedule around each week's broadcast with the zeal of Charlie Sheen toward his weekend two-fer: a coke dispenser and a porn star.

Not even ravenous kids could prevent me from plopping my ass in front of the boob tube with a cocktail. "Drink a glass of milk," I say, waving a dismissive hand over my head. "That'll hold you for two hours."

Then comes Brad, he with the bionic wedge of a torso, and his harem of potential wives. I didn't see him the first time he tried to find a wife. That year, he was internationally regarded as the Jesse James of Assholes after saying "I got your back -- NOT!" to his final two bride wannabes. But this year, to my mind, the guy's all right. Hell, he kicked Skanky Michelle off the show last Monday -- FINALLY -- and I couldn't help gyrating deliriously around the room with a bearded dragon on my chest (long story, and he already has a girlfriend who was "sunning" herself in the aquarium).

So Mr. I-Wanna-Say-I-Do has redeemed himself. Plus, he's in therapy, and I have the utmost respect for people willing to open a vein for the sake of becoming a better person. Plus plus, he's an Austinite. And this year, Brad might actually have found true love.

Swoon.

Okay, gotta go. Wipeout is on, and I need a good dose of reality.
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