by luther barbarossa
Welcome to the new season of the Bachelor, starring me, Luther Barbarossa.
Episode 1 opens with me walking to my parents’ house to reveal I was named The Bachelor. My mother doesn’t know what this means. My stepdad asks if any of the women are Jews or if my mother will be disappointed with them. I explain that I don’t know yet.
My mom asks me why I don’t just get a real job. I try telling her what an influencer is. She starts crying and is deeply upset. She insists she knows what an influencer is and adds that I will embarrass myself and the family, which will be terrible for my mental health.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, that’s the point, but maybe it’ll help me get laid afterward,” I explain. She looks at me quizzically, “Don’t you love your girlfriend? Why are you doing this?” I don’t have an answer, and the cameras cut away.
——-
Welcome to the Bachelor Mansion.
I negotiate an ounce of weed a week allowance with the producers in my contract. It’s California; it’s legal. They begrudgingly agree to this.
Now I’m in my room smoking a joint. I’m freaking out because I haven’t had my phone for a few days and can’t access Twitter. There’s a knock on my door. It’s Sally, hot but very distraught. I’m too stoned to handle this, but I know I can’t turn her away. It’s painfully awkward.
She explains she was supposed to get married this weekend. Christ. Why the fuck didn’t the producers give me the heads up? I raise an eyebrow. “So why did you think it would be a good idea to do this show?” She doesn’t have an answer.
I sit her down, “Yea, I just don’t think it makes sense. This is the worst possible way to put yourself out there. Obviously, you’re not over the last guy. I don’t think it makes sense for you to stay on the show.” The producers yell cut.
I’m still high AF, but I dutifully re-do the scene. “It was so brave of you to come,” I say. “You’re a beautiful woman.” She is silent. My words don’t comfort her. I ask if I can kiss her, fully well knowing neither of us wants this. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t want a kiss. She starts to cry. I’m so high. What is happening?
I ask the producers to get me water for my cottonmouth ASAP. Then I hug Sally and say, “Good luck!” She fully ignores me.
I call a producer over.
“What the fuck?” I say. “Why was she even approved? I have a hunch you don’t have my best interests in mind and are just doing things to torture the women and me on this show.” The producer nods, “Yes, this is my job,” they explain.
I accept this as I need a platform to help my greater socialist agenda after the show. Maybe I can level with them? “So, can I get my cell phone back, just for Twitter?” The producers shake their heads. “If there’s a really fun political scandal or like a war, or the pandemic gets a lot worse, can you let me know?” I ask again. They shake their heads no. “Really?” I say, “Like, if there’s a special election, can I at least request an absentee ballot?” They shake their heads no again.
I take a long hit of my spliff. “This is fucked uuuup.”
The night ends. I’ve sent my first woman home and haven’t even met the rest of the women yet. My hopes are nowhere near as high as I am.
I am wearing my dark blue navy suit, white button-down, no tie, top two buttons undone to show off my chest hair.
Jesse Palmer walks up to me and introduces himself. I turn to him and say I prefer your brother Carson. Jesse has to explain to me, as he’s explained to everyone in the last 15 years, that he is not related to former NFL star Carson Palmer. I nod and say, “Would it be ok if I called you Carson?” He says no.
Jesse gathers himself and comes back to me, “So, are you ready to find true love?” I look back at him, “Honestly, no, I have a girlfriend right now, she’s great, but it’s too late to back out; I’m your Bachelor, and I plan on setting the Bachelor-record for OTPHJs received before fantasy suites on this show.”
Jesse raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t know the acronym. “OTPHJs?” he asks, confused.
“Yes, OTPHJs,” I respond, my grin growing bigger, “You know what I mean, Carson,” I say as I go for a high five. He ignores me.
“Time to meet the girls,” he says as he walks off.
I’m alone. The nation turns its eyes to me. I’m a star.
I stand there waiting for about 5 minutes, just alone with three cameras on me. I’m wearing a fresh pair of Saucony sneakers I bought over the summer that are only slightly scuffed up. Finally, I shout for a producer and walk towards them. “I know I wore the comfy sneakers you didn’t want me to wear, but I’m already kind of sick of standing. Can we do this on a couch or something?”
As I’m half out of the frame, the first limo arrives. I keep insisting to a producer that there must be a way for me to do this on a couch. The producer keeps saying I have to stand; it’s how every season starts.
I’m getting angry, which is what the first contestant, Sarah, sees as she exits the limo. I turn to her and say hi. Before Sarah can say hi back, I go back to the producers and keep negotiating for a chair or, at the very least, a stool. They reject my demands again. Sarah’s entire time is taken up by me yelling at the producers. I don’t even get an opportunity to learn she’s from NYC or ask her what part of Murray Hill she lives in.
A parade of women comes out.
Most look kind of disappointed when they see me. Teddi even says, “I expected you to be taller.” She is not getting a rose. I will never learn she is a virgin.
Hunter arrives with a snake. I send her home immediately and explain to a producer, “No animals this season. I don’t like animals.” At this moment, viewers at home will decide I am the true villain of the season.
I do not enjoy any of the bits the women do as they meet me. Eliza brings a sausage. She is getting the first impression rose. Once I’ve decided she is staying, I can’t remember any other woman’s name, so I keep asking for a chair. I’m visibly uncomfortable and bored. I start asking every woman for their take on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Shanae says something that manages to be profoundly antisemitic and deeply Islamophobic at the same time. She’s a keeper.
I learn the first group date involves throwing a children’s birthday party with Hilary Duff.
I don’t recognize her. When I ask her for her take on Israel and Palestine, she whispers something to a producer and leaves. We learn she is no longer part of this group date.
Cassidy pulls me aside. Cassidy is too into me. I can tell she just wants to win. She’s not here to find love. I start making out with her on a pool chair and ignoring the other women. As we make out, she gives me my first OTPHJ of the season. She’s getting a rose.
Other women seem frustrated that I didn’t spend time with them or the kids.
“I don’t really like random kids,” I say, “Like, I like my friends’ kids and want my own kids, but I definitely didn’t ask for this. Cassidy got my vibe. Sorry you haters didn’t.”
Cassidy relays what just happened to Shanae, who pulls me aside at the cocktail party and also gives me an OTPHJ. I admit to several women that I find them to be incredibly boring. I forget which ones I actually find boring and accidentally don’t eliminate them all.
Someone pulls me aside to say Cassidy has a fuck buddy she texted before the season started.
I turn to them and give them a dirty look. “Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with that,” I say. “I have a girlfriend. I miss texting her. You probably should pack your bags. I’m not here to slut-shame anyone. I’m here to get OTPHJs.”
Jill, the Architectural Historian, gets a one-on-one.
We’re supposed to take a helicopter. I explain to the producers that I will not get on that thing, and we should just Uber.
After I have a meltdown, the producer relents, and a black car takes us to an extreme scavenger hunt in downtown LA. Neither of us enjoys it.
It continues with the immersive Van Gogh exhibit. Unfortunately, none of this part of the date airs as we spend the entire time talking about how stupid and pathetic the exhibition is. There are so many brilliant, creative, living artists, yet the only way art can be profitable is to pimp out a dead guy in the lamest ways. I say multiple versions of “This is barely art.”
Jill agrees with me, and we make out. It’s great.
I keep Genevieve and Mara around.
At one point, I turn to them both and say, “So, are you two Jewish or Italian?” They’re Italian. “Fuck” I add. “But would you convert?” It’s been a few weeks. The Stockholm Syndrome has kicked in. They both commit to converting. I’m elated.
Several women confront me about Shanae. “She’s starting shit and isn’t here for love. It’s a game.” I turn to them. “Wait, you guys are here to find love?” I ask. They all nod. I feel terrible. “Is there any leftover shrimp?” I ask. Nobody replies—several women self-eliminate.
It’s down to Marlena, Jill, Mara, Genevieve, Cassidy, Shanae, and Gabby.
For some reason, the producers insist Genevieve and Shanae share a two-on-one with me. Before it starts, I pull Genevieve aside and explain, “Shanae is not my type, I’d never leave with her, but she gives great OTPHJs.” Genevive raises her eyebrow and asks what an OTPHJ is. I nod, “Oh, you know,” I reply. She does not know.
Shanae accuses Genevieve of being an actor. Genevieve denies this, insisting she’s here to find love. “Wait, so you are a 30-year-old bartender in LA who isn’t an actor? Why do you live there?” Genevieve starts crying. I feel bad and give her the rose.
We are down to Jill, Mara, Genevieve, and Marlena.
I have only picked people who have hometowns I’d enjoy visiting. I can’t have inlaws somewhere in the midwest. That would be terrible. Mara finally cooks all her famous dishes in her hometown. They aren’t good, and she does not get a rose.
Jill, Genevieve, and Marlena all get Fantasy Suite dates. I’m pretty high for all. Jill and I have a fun time re-watching season 1 of Euphoria and talking about Flemish architecture. Marlena and I talk about past toxic relationships, and it’s cathartic. Genevieve reveals she really does want to be an actress but insists she is more focused on finding love. I send Genevieve home.
It’s the final rose ceremony in St. Croix.
The producers planned to have both Marlena and Jill arrive together in order to create the most dramatic finale ever. When the three of us are together, I explain I have a girlfriend and that they are cool, but I think I’m going to keep dating my girlfriend. I really love her, and we have a good thing going.
They all start to cry. One asks me why I didn’t mention it. “Well, nobody asked me explicitly if I was in a committed relationship, but don’t worry, we agreed to be open during the two months of filming.” This explanation doesn’t calm anyone down.
Jesse Palmer has aged seven years during my season but has happily taken up smoking with me.
After the women leave, Palmer and I curl up in a hammock shotgunning, finally having an insightful convo on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
“Hey Carson,” I say, “That went well.” He smiles and gives me my final OTPHJ. I have found love. The screen turns black.
It’s After the Final Rose.
I arrive with my girlfriend, we are still together and planning to buy a house in Prospect Heights with all my new sponcon money coming in. I will also be appearing on Dancing with the Stars, which I expect to win. Gabby is announced as the next Bachelorette, which we all saw coming, as she is the only one who didn’t give me an OTPHJ, and I still remember her name. So excited to watch her find love (and many more followers)!
I laughed out loud at this, my expectations were as high as Luther Barbarossa during the bachelor and they were exceeded.
The OTPHJ element of the bachelor/ bachelorette really needs to be talked about more.
lololol the definitely do OTPHJ right????