Charitable Giving Calls

I'm writing from the O'Hare airport on my way to Vail, Colorado.  In my fairly self-absorbed life, I think it's about time I give back to others and begin my long goal of charity work.  My first mission is utterly necessary and hopefully tax deductible.  Upon landing in Vail, I am proceeding directly to Trista Rehn Sutter's house, box of Golden Blonde L'Oreal Preference in hand.  

I haven't been watching The Bachelor this season -- MY LOSS INDEED.  But I did tune in last night for The Girls Tell All episode. The impromptu appearance of Trista and Ryan (what would you estimate his IQ is?) was an added bonus.  Why is Trista now brunette? Are there no mirrors in Vail? Regardless, her child is cute and we can only hope Ryan's dim-witted demeanor skips a generation.  I was, as always, wowed by his eloquent knack for poetry last night.  (Ryan should write Trista a haiku explaining her dark hair looks like ass and save me the trip.)

Now, moving on.  Why did Charlie O'Connell's little lady Sarah feel it necessary to announce he had a drinking problem on national television?  I, personally, like him better wasted. And did he get infinitely hotter and more youthful or have I just been married too long?  If that's what going off the sauce does for one's looks I really should consider it. (Pause for brief ruminating...)  Okay, I considered it. Ancient-looking and buzzed I shall remain. 

What do you think family gatherings are like when Rebecca Romijn is standing next to Sarah? Can they even hear each other with the three-story gap between their heads? Somebody buy that munchkin a foot stool.  And how much weight did Sarah lose in the last three years? She's like half her former size. I need to move to Los Angeles...  I think you're required by law to stay under 105 pounds or they ship your ass back to wherever you came from.  Last time I was in L.A. I felt like I was starring in Honey, I Shrunk the Entire Female Species but Rick Moranis forgot to shrink me.

Now, upon landing back at O'Hare after Trista is restored to her former glory, I am immediately embarking on a less pleasant but more important mission: scaring that melanoma-destined freak Natalie out of Chicago.  I suspect she is single-handedly responsible for Chicago being named the third most miserable city in the U.S. simply because she lives here.  I am bringing a psychiatrist with me to back up my preliminary diagnosis of narcissistic split personality disorder.  We haven't met that "laid back" persona she swears she has inside her and I'd like to take her at her word that this personality exists.  I don't think I need explain the narcissism aspect of my diagnosis (except maybe to Ryan).  

How long did that Stephanie survive in this game?  Is she part amphibian?  I didn't know it was anatomically possible for a human beings' eyes to be that far apart.  And, for the record, I hope they don't make the chirpy chick who got the "friend" line (the one with the nifty hotdog theory) the next Bachelorette.   Now, I am going to retire to my bed to further lament that I missed an entire season of excellent television programming.

PS -- And I guess I should mention that I'd rather sleep with Don Rickles than Jason. When Chris the host is hotter than the bachelor, someone in casting should get some walking papers.