The Bachelorette: Ali Meets the Parental Units

By Alexandra Gehringer

[I don't think we really need to say this, but this post contains spoilers. If you didn't sit on your couch with a box of cereal and a 2-Liter of Diet Orange Crush watch last night's episode of The Bachelorette and somehow managed to avoid any media already telling you what happened, you might wanna stop reading right now....]

Those of you who follow what I write for College Candy (here’s lookin’ at you, Mom) may know that I’m a fan of the open letter.  Tonight I have been inspired, once again, to compose one such masterpiece of the written word in honor of our Bachelorette, Ali.  Here goes.

Dear, dear, dear Ali.

Hi.  How are things going?  You hangin’ in there?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.  Tonight looked tough for you.  I mean, gosh, they really should have explained to you beforehand how this show works.  You do in fact have to ask guys to leave each week and then, at the end, ultimately choose one lucky lad to be your husband.  Girlfriend, forget how in each episode it seems to come as a shock to you that you need to send someone (or a few someones) home, but I honestly can’t see you winding up engaged after all this.

Will it be a repeat of that sleazy Brad’s season in which he sent both finalists packing?  Quite possibly.  Sure, you’re blonde and bubbly and have an annoying little laugh so America will ultimately forgive you, unlike Brad, but honey, you’re still dumb as bricks.

Now, it was no surprise that you sent Kirk home this week.  Quite honestly, it was long overdue.  His father keeping dead animals in the freezer next to the ice pops would have been the nail in the coffin, so to speak, for most women…can’t fault you there.  But why’d you have to go and sob about it?  He knew his time was through, heck, so did his own mother.  That’s why she was sporting braces and a Snooki-inspired poof (can you say BumpIt?); she really needed to get the most from her 15 Minutes of Fame.

And, God as my witness, if you so much as make Chris L. shed one tear I will hunt you down and rip out your overpriced extensions.  That is just a glorified hair weave and it will come out just as painfully as it went in.  You know that boy is a cryer and you will break his heart if you’re mean to him.  I don’t know what he sees in you.  He can do far better (call me!) and don’t you forget it.

I realize you think Roberto is hot sh*t right now.  I know you were playing Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights in your head as you salsa-ed with him through his parents’ living room.  Just as middle-aged divorcees grow tired of chasing the cabana boy, you too will eventually realize that there’s not much in his pretty little head beyond baseball stats and good manners.  He may look hot in those American Eagle shirts, but one day he’ll get old and paunchy and acquire “sports injuries” that prohibit him from tossing the ball around like Babe freakin’ Ruth.  Get him out of your system now and run while you still can.

As for Frank, he is clearly a descendant of the Keebler Elves. (Seriously, just look at the resemblance between this and these.) That was a fake family you met, one he probably hired just for the day.  Of course you couldn’t go to the magical forest and see where the cookies are made.  Much like in the Amish culture, once Frank chose to abandon the Keebler way of life and leave the cookie tree, he could never return.  There is a one in five chance your children will have a chocolate frosting center…and a two in five chance your sons will have a desire to wear femininely deep V-neck t-shirts and shave their chests like their father.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

But really, Ali, don’t say I didn’t warn you about most of what’s headed your way.  The tears, the second-guessing, the third-guessing, the consulting Chris Harrison…you’re going to make Jason Mesnick look like he had his mess together.  And he was a train wreck!  I really do look forward to seeing how you wrap up your season.  I know if you go down, you’re gonna go down swinging.

Best of Luck.