Blame Canada

With all the flagship reality competitions wrapping up this week (Survivor; Dancing with the Stars; Idol), I thought I'd better hop on some new TV bandwagons, lest I find myself halfway into summer with no shows to watch, let alone blog about. So I hunkered down with some TJ chocolate-covered pretzel slims and a notepad to watch the premiere of the latest incarnation of The Bachelorette, starring ex-Bachelor Jason Mesnick's jilted second-runner-up, Jillian Harris.

Uh-oh. I think I am outgrowing this slimy series.

What do we know about 29-year-old Jillian, other than that she's Canadian (which means we're going to have to listen to her say "aboot" and "baahthroom" all season long)? Well, in a nifty video montage, we learn that she has a vast bikini collection. She buys hot dogs from street vendors and hungrily devours them. She washes her car in short-shorts and high heels. No wonder America (as host Chris Harrison is intent on repeating) has fallen in love with her! She's Alberta's answer to Daisy Duke! And apparently, she's got a thing for country boys...

In Jillian's noble quest for her Prince Charming/Mr. Right/Mr. Invisible/Soul Mate (she uses all of these cliches interchangably throughout the broadcast), one thing about this mystery dude has already been decided: he's a white guy. Yes, all 30 bachelors are white; not even a token minority in sight. (If you try to convince me that the unaccented, Argentinian-born Juan, at right, is an exception, you'll lose.) Apparently Jillian likes to refer to herself as "a polished hick," so let's not feign surprise at her narrow color spectrum.


Among Jillian's fair-skinned suitors:

• Nutty Tanner P., an unabashed foot fetishist who convinces Jillian to dip her feet in the pool so he can surreptitiously look for corns/toe jam/crooked toes. (He doesn't find any. Damn.)
• Michael, a good-humored break-dancing instructor who is roped into "battling" with a pint-sized wannabe model named Bilbo. (Bilbro? Whatever.)
  
• Kyle, a baby-faced Brooklynite and vintage clothing enthusiast, who makes the mistake of prattling on about his affection for big city life (and is sent home. Nobody likes pretentious 25-year-old boys.)
  
• David, who resembles a skinny, white version of The Rock. Upon stepping out of the limo to introduce himself to Jillian, he completely blanks on what he wanted to say. 20 seconds of silence. Probably the most sincere entrance of the night.

After mingling with the dudes for a while, Jillian remarks that each guy she talks to is better looking than the last. No they're not. That's the wine talking. Finally, Chris Harrison comes in carrying a silver tray. On the tray is a biscuit. On that biscuit, every bachelor must ejaculate. The last one to shoot his wad has to eat the biscuit. {Sigh} If only! It's just the freaking first impression rose, and Jillian gives it to the mute, David.

I don't know what else to say about this stupid, implausible show, which-- with the recent Jason/Molly/Melissa and DeAnna Pappas debacles, is now completely devoid of any semblance of credibility. I can't watch. I won't watch. I don't give a single, solitary shit about it. Not even a turd pellet. Not even a ghost poopy.

I will look elsewhere for my next blogged-about-show to-be.