A great deal was supposed to happen in last night's episode of The Bachelorette, in which the dead walk the earth and stagger and lurch towards
two eligible women in an attempt to woo them back to their bachelor crypts.
The show's narrator Jodie Rimmer kept sucking in her breath and then
SHOUTING that a great deal was about to happen. Loud, abrupt, DOOR-SLAMMING
music signalled that a great deal was going to happen at any moment. But at
the end of the day, and what a long, BORING day it was, absolutely nothing
Hottie Lesina went on a date with Zombie Mike. Hottie Lily went on a date
with Zombie Kumara - he has a name, but I can't remember it, all that comes
to mind is that he grows kumaras and has a mullet. Be warned, I may refer to
him later in this review as Zombie Mullet.
Anyway, nothing happened on either date, and the rest of the episode was
filled, as in padded out, as in desperately edited at maximum door-slamming
volume, with a contrived DRAMA between the original set of nine zombies and
the newly introduced five zombies.
"They don't respect our culture," droned Zombie Liam, who has been with the
show since it began at the dawn of time.
"Aw yeah," muttered Zombie Mullet, neither agreeing or disagreeing, or
saying anything at all, really.
And so the antagonism didn't go very far. It's hard to go very far when the
antagonists are also the walking dead. They argued with each other,
lifelessly; they made snippy little comments at each other, deathlessly;
they lurched and staggered in each other's direction, and then sat down
What do the undead read? Zombie Mike was shown reading a novel by Wilbur
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What do the undead write? Hottie Lesina gave Zombie Logan a notebook, and
said, "It's for you to write your poetry and your little short stories."
Short stories! God almighty.
But WAIT, something happened, SORT OF. The show's wooden host, Art Green,
creaked into shot, and just for a second there, when he was standing at a
certain angle and in a certain light, it struck me that he looked quite a
lot like Eric Watson when that wealthy fathead was younger.
I thought back to the time I went to his wedding reception when he got
married to Nikki Watson. It was held at a private suite at the Heritage
Hotel on Albert St.
There weren't that many people there. I got the feeling
he didn't have many friends. I asked other guests, "How do you know Eric?"
And they said, "I don't, really, but I got invited, so."
I asked a beautiful woman the same question. She said, with a rising
inflection, "He's my husband?" So at least he knew one person quite well.
It was a long night. Good looking people stuck in hell, listlessly going
about the pursuit of love - it was a lot like The Bachelorette.