Buddha and Bachelor Pad

Atheists and Christians, Buddhists and Jain,

Gather y'all and hear a story of human triumph! Lo it was not written, but unfolded in its own space with the pressure of gravity, like a lotus.

In the land of spray tans and whores, where the champagne is on tap and the bunk-beds are stacked, a game that honors God's creation has emerged. It goes by the name of Bachelor Pad.

Holy shit, did you guys see what Nick did?

I'll try to be clear and direct for those unfamiliar with the show. 'Isn't that the show with all the whores,' you ask? Yes. Yes, it is.

Everyone gets drunk and has sex and fights and schemes for money and the whole time you're watching you're saying to yourself, 'Wow, what it wrong with me? Something must be wrong with me that I'm watching this show,' but you watch and you watch and you hope that you can find a way to justify it.

Well, I've found the righteous path.

For years, (has it been on like three years, yet?) I've been waiting for this stupid show to live up to some imagined potential. Finally, it paid off.

Nick, the quiet guy, did the shitty thing and won all the money at the expense of his partner. His partner, Rachel Trueheart (I can't even make that name up), who never wanted to be his partner, was devastated because she missed out on the money and didn't have the courage to try to screw him over.

In Bachelor Pad, if you are the final "couple" you can vote one of three ways: 1. Vote to Share. If you and your partner vote to Share, you each win $125,000. 2. If one partner votes to Share and the other votes to Keep, the Keeper gets $250,000, and the Sharererer gets zip. 3. If you both vote to Keep, all the losers not slick enough to ascend the greased up Slip N Slide get the loot.

Nick said Keep. She said Share. He wins the whole burrito.

It was truly fantastic. I'll tell you why (because I feel your glare) -- he owned it. He stood up and clapped for himself while the audience and contestants held mouths agape.

Neither partner really liked each other, but the gracious deal, and the safe deal, was to share all the same. He knew it, everybody knew it, and he gave her assurances that he would share. Then, he pressed the Me button.

Nick seemed to understand the sad truth about this Bachelor Pad game from God: It is a horrible game to begin with! No one deserves to win! Even the biggest turd, Kalon, -- OMG, he called Emily's daughter baggage -- understood that. The premise of these one-winner reality shows like Survivor, Big Brother or Top Midget (this is my idea -- contact me for funding options), is I matter and you don't; It's a big game of King of the Hill. It's the same with sports. It's the same with capitalism. It's the same with everything, and the reason we're all going to hell.

'Isn't that the show with the whores?' Yes, yes, but...

Bachelor Pad is a constructed environment. It's a safe tent in the desert where none who enter are innocent. Don't you get it? Can you see what I see?

The glory of Buddha is found in the middle path! The glory of Christ lies on the cross! The atheist likes carrot cake. I lost where I was going, but if we are honest with ourselves, we know the 010101 pattern in life is a give-take thing. Self v. the Whole. Desire leads to dakka, compassion to peace, yadda, yadda -- most translate Dakka as suffering, but it is something more subtle.

Do I have to spell it out? What's best for the whole  -- and the whore, by the way -- is to have some room to be selfish. Not a crap-ton, but a reasonable amount. In daily life, that may mean a beer after your gig at the donut shop. On Bachelor Pad, it means Keep. Thanks for being awesome, Nick.

 

Oh Bachelor Where Art Thou?

I'm going on the offensive.

Who are you to make fun of me just because I love The Bachelor? And The Bachelorette. And Big Brother, Flavor of Love and Celebrity Whore Dash (still in production). I'll admit, I'm often lost by what others like you count as drama. Watching CSI Boca Raton investigators stumble around in the dark just doesn't do it for me anymore. Seriously, there are no F-in' lights in the lab? It's a lab! Marge, and her seventeen facelifts, stuck in eternal midnight blue. Marge Helgenberger is 52 years old.

As long as we're all going to be lulled into lives of working misery, suckered into chasing pride or power and cashing in our dignity for minivans or pats on the back from the youth pastor for laughing at his off-putting knock-knock joke 10 seconds after he justified Almighty God's need to ask Abraham to kill his own son to a six-year-old, we should get something to keep us quiet. Something that can satisfy our need to stare at others.Yes, I'm talking about the real tears of mortals.

And nobody works harder to make real people cry than our reality television producers. So, how do you make people cry without making people feel guilty about wanting to watch people cry? Well, it's not as easy as you might think.

First, you have to start with pretty people. Fit and muscular twentysomethings are preferred, but old irascible veterans work, too.

Then you give them the opportunity to achieve wealth and fame. You know, the things crusty actresses like Helgenberger have killed people for. Then, just stick them all in a maze with only one piece of cheese. If you are really sophisticated, like producers of The Bachelor of The Biggest Loser, you allow the piece of cheese to be love or self-worth. Did you know that when contestants on The Biggest Loser get voted off the show for not dropping enough L-B-Ss they pan to a refrigerator full of sweets topped with said contestant's name to watch the light on the calorie box go dim? Shouldn't the bulb go bright since Mrs. Tummyontv is heading home to eat a cake in misery, you ask? Shhhh. This is drama.

Keep them away from their families. Check. Make them eat bugs. Check. Make them starve and vote each other out and then show them their baby's first steps on video. Action! Elitist like yourself turn to Hill Street Blues and talk about the great writing or the importance of supporting the true craft of acting. That's real drama. Fooey!

The Biggest Loser, better than perhaps any other show, takes reality television to its natural conclusion: suffering is spectacle. King of the Mountain is the only game in town. All pain is justified so long as one big shot gets glorified in the end. It's everything we know.

I like to watch The Bachelor with my wife after she has been slaving at her big-box retailer all day and tell her which blondes I'd pick. Sometimes we'll have lively debates, but for the most part, we agree with each other. We have the most fun when we imagine our own outcomes.

This Bachelor season, we were praying that Brad Womack would get to the end and pick two girls. You know, mix it up. The possibilities for entertainment are endless. This year they didn't even announce who the next Bachelorette was going to be. I guess Michelle was too crazy. Ho hum.

I've talked myself quiet. Go back to your SVU, elitist snobs!

Knock-knock. Who's there? Eternal salvation....