Ever had one of these?  it’s spring and many of you are probably thinking that this is the year you are finally going to commit to some serious spring cleaning by subjecting yourself to a garage sale.  Of all the people that have had a garage sale, what percentage of those people would you guess consider their garage sale a success?  Of those people who consider their garage sale a success, what percentage of those people would you guess are bold faced liars or are otherwise full of shit?  My guess is 90%.  That’s because garage salers never take into account time spent on the project.  So if you are thinking about having one, my advice is read this article first.  My theory is you never want to just plunge into things.  Do some research.  It usually pays off.

First off, do you really need a garage sale?  Lets take a look at an example of a garage that probably doesn’t need a sale.  Example number one below would fall into this category.

Example Number One

You see how tidy this gentleman’s garage is. That’s the first clue for you.  If your garage is well organized, you probably need all of your shit in there.  When you get tired of stuff and you store it haphazardly and you couldn’t care less if  someone breaks into your garage and helps themselves to whatever is laying around, that’s a good sign it’s time for a sale.  Also, that would be one reason to just leave your garage door open all the time.  That’s a nice alternate route to take if you don’t want to bother with all the trouble of a sale.   Secondly,  I don’t see any item duplication, and outside of that hubcap in the foreground, I really don’t see much of anything that would sell anyway.  Wait a minute here!  What the hell is this guy doing?  I’m not sure, but from the looks of things it appears this misguided horn-dog failed high school biology and is engaged in some kind of futile attempt to duplicate hubcaps.  Well, at least he seems to have an eye for what’s hot in garage sale marketing.

This second example below is your tweener.  This garage is well organized, but there are lots of

Example Number Two

duplications.  Taking into account my criteria, this one’s right on the fence. Looks like the owner has trouble parting with old electronics.  And stuff is starting to migrate to the floor.  That’s usually a tip-off that its time to get rid of stuff, by sale or otherwise.  I bet you are thinking those electronics could fetch a pretty penny at a garage sale.  But you’d be surprised.  You should understand going in that people are cheap.  They tend to consider anything priced over $5.00 like it’s a locked up Rolex in a jewelry case.   Be prepared to be disappointed.  Of course after they bargain you down to $3.00, they are going to want to make sure you didn’t stick them with a mechanical turd, so be sure you have a couple of long extension cords at the ready to appease these douchenozzles.

Now if your garage looks like example three here, you might be totally beyond the point of a

Example Number Three

garage sale.  What you need to do is build yourself a second garage to store this shit in before some pesky city ordinance snaps you in the ass.

If you do decide to go through with a garage sale, keep in mind there is a lot of preparation to do.  For instance, I had an old cabin tent I desperately wanted to get rid of.  I have tents coming out of my ass, mostly dome type.  I cracked a flexible tent pole for my big dome tent one time, and emailed Coleman, explaining that I needed a replacement.  They sent me a whole new tent, free!   God I love that company.  But now I have way too many tents.  Besides two big dome tents, I have a couple of smaller ones and a couple of pup tents.  That is a result of progression and family expansion.  My wife and I are in compression mode now, and the smart thing at this point in our lives is give up on camping period. Too many joint replacements going on with us.   If you want a tent I probably have one that would work for you.  Anyway, last spring we did have a garage sale, and the cabin tent was the first thing off my premises.  I hated that thing.  The color codings needed to identify the 18 poles for proper connections had long since faded away, and the connection points between poles would never stay locked, so sections of poles that were angled twisted around in every direction.  Assembly thus required at least two people, three if there were time constraints involved.  And you have to put your tent up if you want to sell it at a garage sale.  The purchasing public will think you’re a big dick that’s trying to hide something otherwise.   I had to enlist the help of my neighbor to get the job done.  You see us both hard at work in the picture above.  Two hours and a roll of duct tape later, what we accomplished is shown at right.  I was pretty sure that tent would attract a lot of interest, and as it turned out my instincts were correct.  The first day of my sale my very first customer  was drawn immediately to it.  I took a picture of him while he was checking it out in the bargain bin. That’s him  on the left.   I am glad I started taking pictures.  Here is another one of my customers pictured below right.   As you can see, he looks like a nice guy, so I didn’t pay much attention to him while he was looking over my merchandise.  I took the picture right before he started running down the street with this shopping cart full of tires.  I couldn’t give shit about the tires.  They weren’t even mine.  That prick stole my shopping cart!  I borrowed it from Target, and sort of forgot to return it.  I mean, I suppose this dimwit got tired of lugging around those tires, but come on!  I would have lent him the shopping cart, but he out and out stole it from me.  I hope Target finds out and throws him in jail.

My Set of Keys

The two hours spent on the cabin tent was nothing compared to the frustrating afternoon I had dealing with the second most important thing I wanted to get rid of- an old car top carrier.  It had been in my attic for at least thirty years.  We used it once.  It was one I bought from Sears, a plastic shell type that was an absolute pain in the ass to mount on car-top rails but it looked like new and I was once again certain it would be primo garage sale material.  I had all the parts and accessories, knew right where they were in fact.  The problem was I had locked the thing up and did not know right where the key was.  I don’t know why it was not in its proper place with my set of keys.  I have a key for everything I have ever needed a key for, plus a duplicate of most, two for some.  I keep my set of keys well organized by throwing all of them in one desk drawer.  After wasting a half hour trying out every key that had a chance of working and an hour trying to remember all the special secret hiding places I hide stuff in, I gave up and did what I always do when all else fails- searched the web.  Hoping to run across a key word that would help me rig up a key, I learned how to pick a lock in multiple ways- with a hair-pin, two paper clips, two small allen wrenches, a small allen wrench/tiny screwdriver combo, and a few other methods I can’t recall.  There were even videos attached to some that demonstrated their effectiveness, but none effectively worked on my Sears  hard shell car top carrier.  I suppose the failure could rest on my shoulders in the way I bent my paper clips and held all the improvised lock-picking tools.  But I’m no moron.  I can follow instructions for Pete’s sake.  After all of my trial and error with the project, I gave up.  It’s just what you do when you reach the point of diminishing returns in time and effort.

Desperate to rid myself of my car top carrier lest it haunt me with more angst, I resorted to the absolute fail safe method for getting rid of stuff.  I set it curbside, with bag of accessories and a sign that read,  “Do Not Take!!”  It was gone the next morning.

Well, that’s about all you need to know about a garage sale.  Good luck.

A footnote in regard to the car top carrier.  About a week after it was removed from my property, my wife and I happened to be driving along one of the quieter streets of Omaha when we noticed what I am now positive was our car top carrier along the side of the road.  It was beat to shit, tire scuff marks adorned the sides, and there was a huge crack running down the middle of the top.  We were at a stop sign and since no one was behind me I couldn’t resist the urge to get out of the car and check it out.  Sure enough, the thing was still locked.  As I drove away, I couldn’t help but reflect on a couple of axioms that hold truth in all aspects of commercialism.  They would be “Buyer beware,” and “You get what you pay for.”

I can’t say as I have ever been terrified by flying.  Sure all the loud noises on takeoff and landing cause an uptick in heart rate occasionally.  And outside of a sudden drop in altitude, in- flight turbulence is something I have gotten used to.  But recently I had a flight that had me wondering if maybe I ought to spend a little more time getting my affairs in order.  It involved the first leg of my return trip from visiting my elderly mother who lives in St. George, Utah.  There aren’t many options for flying back and forth from Omaha and St. George.  All require a plane change in Denver.  i prefer flying into and out of Las Vegas, which is only a 1 and 1/2 hour drive from St. George.  Then I can catch a direct flight, and car rental is not exorbitant because usually my visit with my mom is only for 2 or 3 days.  But because of my mother’s failing health, moving her into assisted living, sprucing up her condo and making  realty arrangements for its sale, my trips there have taken more time,  and I have found using my mother’s car that she no longer drives saves me considerably on transportation expenses.  And so transpired my first flight out of the St. George airport.

I encountered my first hurdle right off in the TSA line.  At the check in station, my boarding pass would not scan.  I had printed it off of my mother’s PC.  I am a Mac person and find PC’s unwieldily, but after battling with all the changing of screens and clicking on the multiple tabs required by a PC that my Mac forgoes, I got the thing to print properly I assumed.  The bar code was plainly visible.  But there I was, holding up the line, albeit a line of merely 4 people  (this is the St. George airport).  After viewing me suspiciously, the TSA employee called over an associate and between the two of them they must have come to the conclusion I was no eminent threat and let me proceed.  As luck would have it, I was not allotted pre-appoved status on my boarding pass.  Actually it wouldn’t matter in any case, because the St. George airport has no PRE line, nor from all appearances does it need one.   Don’t get me wrong.  It’s a very nice little airport, architecturally very modern and clean.  And the city has grown by leaps and bounds.  But it’s a retirement community.  There just isn’t a lot of activity going on that requires an urgent movement of population.  Well, I suppose there are more funerals per capita.  There’s that.  But this is Mormon country,  It’s not like there is a huge Jewish community where sticking the dead in the ground asap is all part of the program.  I think there is like a 24 hour time limit or something for them.  Then there might be a sudden rush for travel reservations.  There are smatterings of Protestants and Catholics (of which my mother is one), but Mormons predominate here and I get the impression that particular religion gives a wide birth to any family that has to make funeral arrangements.   I mean just look at the the streets in Utah.  Talk about wide birth.  In Omaha, there’s a likely chance you’ll knock off your car’s side view mirror on a street-side mail box.  In St. George, all the two lane streets are close to six lanes worth of pavement.  A Boeing 737 could land on any  one of them.  I don’t know for sure, but I think the Mormons plan way ahead and don’t do much of rushing into anything.  So I bet they put their dead on ice.  Gives you time to snag a cheap flight.  No need for haste.

There are no exceptions to the screening procedure here.  Everyone, get your belt and shoes off and take all that shit out of your pockets.  To complicate things at this point I have an after market knee joint. Remembering to mention this fact usually saves me a lot of grief at the TSA checkpoint.  But at the St. George airport, all members of the surgically improved club get patted down, and when this happens to you be prepared for an examination of medical quality thoroughness.  A picture of the guy that performed  mine is at right.  In all honesty, considering the probability of joint replacement in the general population of St. George, I  would hazard a guess that if you unfortunately book the same flight as the St. George chapter of AARP, you should prepare  yourself for a long wait in the TSA line.

There was a twenty minute boarding delay onto my plane.  That always bothers me a bit.  A basic question usually arises- why?  It’s 7am.  The plane has been sitting around all night.  Are they waiting for the sun to come up to throw daylight on the problem?  I became aware of impending trouble as I finally started to strap myself into my seat.  It was cold as a refrigerator in an igloo in there.  To top things off I was wearing cargo shorts and T-shirt, my customary attire for St. George in March.  I like to travel light.  I knew the temperature for that morning was going to be cool by St.George standards, however my total time in an outside environment amounted to the walk from a taxi to the airport front door.  But inside the plane I was freezing.  Normally I find them stuffy and frantically twist and turn my overhead cool air nozzle to coax anything I can out of it.  At first I thought that might be the problem, so I twisted and turned it to make sure nothing was coming out of it, and nothing was.  That doesn’t happen really till the engines fire up.  I finally got some insight into the very cold facts from the stewardess.  Singular.  It’s St. George.  Your in luck if the plane you are  headed out of St George on has two pilots.  This particular stewardess was bundled up in a winter coat, was wearing ear muffs underneath the hood of that coat, and accessorized her ensemble with a colorful pair of fur-lined gloves.

I don’t recall much of  the mandatory aircraft safety instruction. That was the second thing that didn’t work on this plane- the intercom system.  I never pay attention to that stuff anyway.  What’s the point.  As far as the oxygen mask goes, my feeling is I’d just as soon not mess with it.  That way I might be totally unconscious when the plane disintegrates into an explosive inferno.     And the floatation device I’m supposedly sitting on.  Come on!   I’m flying across the Great American Desert for Pete’s sake.  The Vegas odds of this plane landing in water would be comparable to those given to a gopher winning the Kentucky Derby.  One thing I did glean from the stewardess’s teeth-chattering speech was that the plane had some sort of heating malfunction and we would be in for a rather cool flight.

I was starting to get a little nervous.  It seemed to me there was an inordinate number of electrical problems going on here.  That is never good.  Some loose wire could be shorting out.  What’s next?  An electric arch that causes the fuel to ignite?  I began to wonder about the more structurally pertinent things on this airplane.  I peered out the window, scanning the wing for missing rivets.  As we took off, I felt the aircraft was taking far to much time to become airborne, and was making way too many strange sounds.  After twenty minutes of air travel, a third problem presented itself.  It’s details were never made completely clear to me.  As I said, the intercom system was useless.  There was a lot of commotion in the rear of the plane, some grumbling and a yelp, something in the way of a scream maybe.  My take on the inaudible intercom explanation the stewardess gave was that the rest room toilet was malfunctioning as well as the lock on that door. This is never a problem for me on a flight that is less than two hours.  It is always part of my pre flight protocol to drag my luggage through the spottily hygienic airport rest room facility and use all means to prepare myself  for this  very type of adventure.  But on this plane, and I suspect all passenger planes using the St. George airport, one rest room is all you get.  So I imagine there were some people aboard who wished they were as dedicated to a pre boarding schedule as I always am.

By this point in time I don’t think I was alone in thinking this plane might fall out of the sky.  But after a touch down that had to completely blow out at least one shock absorber on the wheel struts, we all made it alive to the Denver airport.  You would think that would be the end of this story but you are wrong.  Our plane remained stationary on a side runway for 30 minutes.  First, we could not proceed to the terminal because another plane with problems of its own was blocking our gate.  Then when our pilot was given instructions to proceed to a different gate, we  could not disembark because there apparently was no jetway in working order available for us to disembark on.  So close!  By this point as you can imagine there was a lot of grumbling going on.  Passengers who previously had decided to get through the chilly ordeal by loading up on Bloody Marys were starting to become cognizant of the fact that since this plane had no available rest room, that decision might prove to be an embarrassing one.  When all gate problems were finally resolved and the hatch opened, a communal shout of relief resounded from our plane that very possible could be heard  echoing through the entire Denver International Airport.

Of course everyone was anxious to get off that plane, but I don’t care how overly extended your bladder is you’re not going to bull rush past me while I’m still getting out of my seat.  Wait your turn.  People are so impatient.  There is always some uppity strutting prick who thinks the rules don’t apply to him.  You don’t proceed until the person in front of you does.  It’s simple  courtesy.  If you fail to comprehend this rule of etiquette by attempting to slip past me, I am  going to hip-check you into the adjacent row of seats.  I will make it look accidental, but nonetheless I will also make it a point to see that the maneuver is as painful as possible for you.

I must say it was a very disgruntled group getting off that plane.  Not many thank you’s passed along to the bundled up stewardess as people paraded out the door.  One passenger in particular seemed to relay a concise and thoughtful expression of how we all felt about this airline.  I have posted a picture of her below.  The flight delays I encountered required I make a mad dash to make my flight connection to Omaha.  I was a few minutes late, but the attendants held the plane for me and another passenger.  Of course there was no time to perform my prerequisite pre-boarding ritual in a DIA rest room.  As I quick-stepped down the jetway, I said a silent prayer that this airplane had a functioning rest room.  That is another story I may some day tell you about.

As i have mentioned I am getting up there in age.  Because of that I have to tell you I have become more alert to the proliferating number of scamming operations that are swirling around my fellow saliva-droolers and blue-haired walker-pushers.  One thing I’ve personally been confronted with lately is magazine double-billing.  This sounds like a scam, but in my case I can’t say that is an accurate assumption.  My wife and I subscribe to three magazines- Time, The Week, and Consumer Reports.  For the most part, I have always considered the content of all three to be factually accurate and suitable to my needs.  No problem there.  But all three at one time or another have had some sort of accounting wire-crossing episode when it came time to send me a bill.  Recently I even had two copies of the same magazine sent to me every month for an entire year.  I’m forever getting billing notices four or five months after I have already paid for an annual subscription.  WTF!  Admittedly, one problem might fall squarely on my shoulders.  Actually I should say my wife’s shoulders.  It was her sister who talked us into purchasing some magazine subscriptions from one of her kids who needed to score a cub scout badge or something.  You know that routine.  And I’m not saying I am totally blameless.  We’ve all been there- doing groundwork for our kids when they should be the ones pounding the pavement for those sales.

You know, come to think of it, I am blameless.  I was a shitty salesman as a kid and I am pretty sure I passed that right on down to both of my kids.  I hated knocking on doors and pandering to crotchety old geezers, especially Old Man Smith who lived in the house next to us when I was growing up.  He was an asshole with all the trimmings.  Because of that I really can’t say I recall ever badgering friends and neighbors on behalf of my kids and their sales projects.  I have always tried to avoid hypocritical conduct when forced into an example setting situation with my children.  I can’t claim to be the perfect parent, of course.  I admit there were those times when I had to take the “college amendment.”  That’s the thing when you tell your kids to do as you say, not as you did.  It exempts you from those mistakes you made in college that involved massive amounts of alcohol.  But overall I tried to parent by example and did a pretty good job if I do say so myself.  I have two great kids who overall haven’t given me too much grief.  Neither of them pursued a career in sales, but they’ve certainly done all right with the career paths they have chosen.  In the end I think I probably did them a favor.   It was ok with me if they only sold a couple boxes of Thin Mints or a bag or two of microwave popcorn.  The real lesson for them I suppose was dealing with the scorn of respective scout masters and mistresses, but so what?  No pressure from old dad to overachieve.  I think that is retroactively important.

Now back to this billing thing.  Maybe, just maybe, there were those rare situations where we had one subscription going and then along came the plea to buy another from a relative or pathetic looking Camp Fire Girl.  But god damn it.  These magazine people have computers by now don’t they?  Can’t they do some cross-referencing.  I mean you match up 3 or 4 pieces of identity data and you have the same person.  Come on!  It’s not rocket science.  When I was a practicing pharmacist we looked for personal identity duplication all the time as we entered  patient information.  It’s  basic computer safety and common sense.  And don’t forget etiquette.  Don’t leave that out. For Pete’s sake you have a phone on your desk, and another one in your pants pocket you set on vibrate, not because your boss told you to, but because you hope you’ll get a long series of robo-calls that will bump your dick and keep it occupied for awhile.  Pull it out (NO NOT THAT!) and give me the courtesy of a call if you’re not sure the data your looking at is repetitive.

So maybe all this isn’t exactly a scam. but man it does piss me off.

2/26-  I am really looking forward to trying out the new Kellogg’s Raisin Bran WITH CRANBERRIES!  My wife picked a box up for me this afternoon.  I told her to be sure and get the box WITH CRANBERRIES and she came through.  Sometimes she screws things up on her trips to the supermarket, especially the weekly one.  Once a week.  Like clockwork.  Well almost like clockwork.  She usually goes on Thursdays, but every once in awhile something comes up and she has to go on Wednesday.  Sometimes Friday.  She really hates to go on Saturday.  She says that’s the day it’s a complete shit-storm at that place.  She is pretty good at listing items on her grocery list.  That list is part of my routine too.  We go over it together every morning the day before she actually makes the trip.  We both figure that’s a good idea.  Then maybe if we fuck up and leave something off the list, it gives us a whole day to add it to the original.  But I worry sometimes she’s not paying attention to details, like she might write down just Raisin Bran and skip the WITH CRANBERRIES part.   I don’t like to look over peoples shoulders.  That used to really bother me when I was working.  So I make it a point not to do that with my wife.  And as I mentioned, since I now have a box of Raisin Bran WITH CRANBERRIES in my kitchen cabinet ,  this was a needless concern this time.  Sometimes I just want to give my wife a big hug.

2/27-  Well shit!  I hate to be the one to break the news, but Kellogg’s Raisin Bran with cranberries is a HUGE disappointment.  Not only did I find the product sorely lacking in cranberries, but I think those jokers over at Kellogg’s actually cut back on the raisins.  They probably figured since they were throwing in the cranberries, they could sneak one by us and leave out some raisins.  I think that really sucks.

2/28-  Once again my wife brought back our 1997 Tercel from the Toyota dealership unwashed.  The car needed service again, so as we have done since we have owned it, we drove it to the dealership to get fixed. The car is 18 years old, so as you can see we are nothing if not loyal.  I know we are probably suckers to keep using a dealership for service work, but both my wife and I have trust issues.  We bought the car from these people, and we feel their service department might have a leg up on keeping up with service needs of this car.  Plus, come on.  The car’s approaching the quarter century mark. It’s a two day wait for parts to arrive before repairs can even get started.   I am guessing a dealership has much faster access to parts than anyone doing independent service.

But the dirty car thing is starting to get on my nerves.  For years it was never a problem.  That’s because for years this dealership never had an automated car wash.  Our car was always returned to us with exactly the same amount of dirt on it as when we brought it in.  Then the dealership moved.  You know why they moved?  We were told by the service people there that it was because they didn’t have an automated car wash.  Didn’t have room.  The current facility was too small.  They needed more space.  So they moved, and they moved to a location that is at least a multiple of four distances from what was already an inconvenient drive for us.  I mean it is way in the fuck out there.  It’s over a half hour drive, and that’s if you happen to get lucky and take the expressway when its not jammed with rush hour traffic.  And my wife refuses to take the expressway anyway.  Makes her all nervous-like.  Her route takes a solid 45 minutes,  and thats on a good day without construction detours.  Our Toyota dealership has been at its new location for four years now, and we have had the Tercel serviced there five times.  You know how many times the car has come back clean?  Once.  Their automated car wash has a batting average of .200.  In baseball you get sent back to the minors for that lack of production.  Is that nuts or what?  You know what I would do if I was in charge and told people we had to move because it was imperative we have an automated car wash and then the automated car wash turned out to be a piece of shit?  I’d have the lowest guy on the service department totem pole get out there with a garden hose and bucket of suds and start scrubbing.  I don’t give a shit if it’s snowing.  My reputation is at stake.  That’s what I’d do.

I know this is the time of year you really start to concentrate on college basketball.  It won’t be long and you’ll be filling out your brackets.  Right now it’s important to watch any game you can channel surf to and get a good line on team performance.  But your wife or girlfriend could not give a rat’s ass about this stuff.  They have their own final four going on right now and you, my friend, might be missing out on some intense action.  I’m talking about the reality TV program “The Bachelor,” and after stumbling across an episode last week I found myself unable to let go.  I only watched my basketball game during Bachelor commercial breaks.  It was that gripping.

But I know how totally disinterested you are about this kind of stuff and would consider it a complete waste of time to watch anything but a sports channel, so I decided I would do you a favor and get you caught up on what’s been happening in girly world.  Pay attention.  This is a huge opportunity for you to score some points with your lady-friend.  I have things broken down into basics, strengths and weakness of each contender,  and putting things in terms you can understand.  Plus what you have here is concise.  It will give you  a precise synopsis of all the carryings-on so you can get back to ESPN in a timely manner.  Sorry I couldn’t have this ready for Valentines day,

GAME RULES:  Basically what the contest amounts to is a whole bunch of very desperate women preening themselves and fawning over one lucky guy, the official “Bachelor,” each of them emboldened with the hope that he will have the good sense to choose her as his wife.  I think they get married anyway.  From what I am gathering that is the whole point behind all the drama.  And there might be some kind of tricky point of law or religious objection otherwise.   The best part about it is the Bachelor is in complete control.  I think he can even make shit up on the fly.  I don’t know where they find all these women.  I mean from what I understand they show up on the Bachelor’s door step by the dozen. I don’t know how many women they start with.  As I mentioned I just recently tuned in.  But where were they when I was in college?  There are so many women that the Bachelor has to eliminate them by the hand-full.  And again that is totally up to his discretion.  No involvement by any nosey, overly judgmental outsiders.

LIST OF CHARACTERS:

THE BACHELOR (and Grand Prize): Brad- Home Town: Pisga, Iowa.   This is the object of all attention, a stud-muffin of a guy who makes sure he never misses his daily gym work-out.  He can’t afford that.  Not only might his six-pack abs whither on the vine, but he’s got to corner the towel attendant again to help him figure out how to apply his testosterone patch.  This could be you if you work on that belly flab and soak your head every night in a bucket of Rogaine.  And it might not hurt to get some orthodontic work done.  Wearing long-sleeved shirts should provide good enough cover for that skin condition.  OCCUPATION: Auto Sales Executive.  Translation:  Works for his father at a Ford dealership.  With some quick thinking (something that is of a premium with Brad) he talked his dad into giving him a title indicative of some prestige when he found out he was a Batchelor candidate.  His office door plate reads “Sales Vice President of Small and Medium-sized Trucks”.

THE FINAL FOUR:

Krystal- Home Town: Lickskillet, Ohio.   Bleached blond with huge knockers.  Was smart enough to realize early on that Sadam Husain was never hoarding WMD’s but heard through the grapevine, which amounts to the bartender at the strip club she works at,  that he was trying to corner the market on her favorite brand of Russian vodka.  She was very glad we invaded so we could get that rumor all cleared up.  OCCUPATION: Dancing Instructor (translation: Pole dancer)

Bobbi Jo- Home Town: Dallas, Texas.    Knock-out red-head with delicately chiseled face.  Her parents had an orthodontist install a couple of extra teeth in her jaw when she was ten so her smile would stand out during all the beauty pageants they entered her in.  They were supremely confident the expense was justified after Bobbi Jo was crowned  “Miss Correct Posture” queen. OCCUPATION: Chiropractic intern (translation:  Private masseuse)

Chastity- Home Town: Sugar City, Idaho.   Defines the phrase “innocently cute.”  In fact, she professes to be a virgin, and Is convinced Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon, as well as evolution, are a hoax.  OCCUPATION: Sandwich artist (translation: Blimpies employee)

Starr- Home Town: Toad Suck, Kansas.   Petite brunette whose small stature and small town upbringing belie her extensive reputation.  What is the complete polar opposite of a virgin?  Nail that image and you’ve nailed Starr, as has any male over the age of 16 in Toad Suck and half of the guys living in any adjacent county.  Moved to LA to open up her availability.  OCCUPATION; Cosmetic developer (translation: Clinique Counter clerk)

FIRST SEMI-FINAL

This was one of those contests that almost went into overtime.  Brad was under some very intense pressure to choose between Starr and Chastity.  WTF is a man to do in this situation?  A virgin on one hand and a gal that knows all the ropes on the other.  That’s every type of rope,  as well as a working knowledge of every kind of knot used in tying up people with those ropes.  Very helpful to Brad with his decision making process was Chastity’s sister Wanda.  In the way of explanation, at this stage of the competition, the Bachelor gets to go visit the home towns of the remaining contestants and pump their family members for any inside information they might be willing to part with.  Turns out Wanda was more than willing to spill her guts.  It was from this sister that Brad found out Chastity was completely intact.  So complete is the intactness that Wanda professed she thought Chastity was a little off the beam with her reclusiveness and ought to get out more, or have someone get in more.  Brad started to get the picture as Wanda was stroking her hand over his thigh.  No one is sure what went on because right at this point there was a commercial break.  Probably just as helpful to Brad was the information he gleaned from Starr’s brother Ted during his visit to Toad Suck.  Being a fellow guy (and knowing this was his one shot at his fifteen minutes of fame) Ted thought he could score some big points with Brad and the national TV audience by letting everyone in America and whoever was watching overseas know  what a  whoring slut his sister was.  When Brad ratted Ted out for telling this tale, Starr immediately took the offensive by opening up her laptop and giving Brad a good gander at the 500 plus nude photos of herself.   This seemed to be just too much for Brad.  I got the feeling that all those pictures reminded him of that date he had a couple years back with a girl from Des Moines.  It was shortly after that encounter that he experienced some very intense pain during urination and the fix was an almost as painful injection of penicillin in his ass.  I am not sure if that stuff entered into his decision or not, but at any rate in the end Chastity got the rose and Starr went home empty-handed.

Oh, I forgot.  At the conclusion of every episode the Bachelor hands out roses to all the winners.  If you don’t get a rose, you don’t advance to the next round.  You’re a loser.  And believe me the gals involved in this production don’t take kindly to rejection and are not the best of sports when dealing with defeat.  Not a lot of congratulatory hand shaking going on here.  There’s weeping.  And unrestrained sobbing.  Lots of that.  Quite a bit of vindictive bad-mouthing and name calling.  But it’s not directly confrontational.  All the tormented expression of inadequacy and verbal bitch-slapping is pretty much reserved for the time spent alone inside of the limo that transports the distressed damsels from the  promising house of romance to the hotel that houses the losers.  From all appearances it is a distressfully humiliating and agonizingly long ride.  I wouldn’t mind hearing what the limo driver has to say.  He’s the guy that has the real story.  He’s privy to the un-edited version of all the carryings-on.  I bet he has to wash his ear-drums out with soap when he gets home.  Plus, I imagine there’s some hanky-panky going on inside that vehicle when Brad is in there philosophizing with one of the girls.  The limo driver might have to sponge down the leather upholstery now and then.  But that’s all part of the job.  As far as these rose hand-offs go, I personally think things should work just the opposite.  The losers should get a rose as a consolation prize for humiliating themselves on national TV.  Give them something to help them recall how ingratiatingly pathetic they looked during all the groveling and back-stabbing.  But that’s just me.

To  really ramp up audience interest, coming up shortly will be the “fantasy suite” episode.  Believe it or not, the network sees no problem essentially paying three women to have sex in a hotel room with Brad.  Sweet deal for Brad.  You and I would have to pay a pretty penny for that accommodation, and risk jail time as well.  Now I don’t know if all four of them get together and have like an orgy or something.  The limo driver could tell us.  I’m sure the producers have threatened to cap him though if he opens his mouth.  This type of reality garbage is driven by suspenseful intrigue, and what better way to draw any male that still has a functioning prostate and at least one testicle into this extremely shallow pool of human dignity than with the lure of a partie a’ quatre.  I’m kind of curious to know if there are any women involved with the executive decision making here.  Seems like a guy thing to me.  Dangle the word “fantasy” in front of us and we are likely to bite on absolutely anything associated with its context.

I have a feeling though the evenings of whoopee in hotel rooms will be just that- plural.  I mean you have to figure a one-night bedroom romp with three women at the same time would be pretty confusing for Brad.  He has a very important decision to make- the selection of one of these skanks to be his bride.  I would have to think the production team realizes it’s only fair to slow the game down for Brad.  Evaluating the gals performance one at a time makes more sense.  Good luck with Chastity.  You have to figure there’ll be lots of whimpering and sobbing  going on before Handle”s “Hallelujah Chorus” chimes in.

Now that I think about it, I just don’t  have the stamina to get  through another episode of this shit.  You guys will simply have to tune in if you want to find out who moves on and is mercifully declared champion.  Grab a bag of chips and a six pack on your way home from work. There’s another semi-final tonight.