Following the bachelorette’s decision to marry the guy she chose despite the fact that thirty minutes earlier she was in love with two guys, a commercial came on that captured my attention. The commercial asked a series of questions such as “Are you single?”, “Are you struggling with the dating scene?”, and “Do you think you have what it takes to be a reality TV star?” The answers were pretty clear to me: yes, yes, and absolutely yes.
According to the commercial, ABC was coming to Columbus on that Thursday to hold a casting call for people who thought that they have what it takes to be on The Bachelor. After my last post, which was a relationship-themed version of The Cage, I felt as though this casting call was a sign. I previously wrote that if there were a way that I could teach everyone of you how to mack the females, I would, but it simply wasn’t feasible. If I went on The Bachelor, though, it would be the perfect opportunity to basically turn the show into a tutorial on how to make the babes swoon. Plus, I’d end up with a smoking hot babe and would be famous enough to have a picture of me buying bacon and eggs end up on page 26 of Us Weekly. This was my calling.
I arrived at whatever dance club the casting call was being held at with a smile on my face and an abundance of confidence in my back pocket. As I approached the club, though, I noticed something that seemed a little off to me. There were a considerable amount of young, good-looking women walking towards the same club as me. I assumed that they all saw me driving, thought I looked like a guy who liked to party, and followed me in hopes that they could swim with The Shark (it wouldn’t have been the first time something like that has happened). To test this theory, I turned my walk into a jog and eventually turned my jog into a full out sprint past the doors of the club to see if the throngs of women would come running after me like I was in an Axe commercial. Instead, they all calmly walked into the club while presumably pointing at me and laughing. Whoops.
Since I don’t do all that much sprinting when I’m waiting for the clock to run out at the end of games, the running through the parking lot and past the club got my heart rate going a little bit and produced a substantial amount of sweat. I didn’t want to go into the casting call pouring sweat (plus I didn’t want to sweat all over my shark tank top), so I decided to cool off and regroup at the Kroger that was right next door. As I walked through the automatic doors and grabbed a cart (it’s instinctual to grab a cart even if I’m not buying anything), I was greeted by what was surely going to make me the next Bachelor bachelor.
Placed right by the entrance, as if Kroger knew all about my destiny, were a few handfuls of roses accompanied by a sign that explained that they were on sale. If you watch The Bachelor, you know exactly why this would prove to be important. If you don’t watch The Bachelor, congratulations on maintaining at least a sliver of masculinity. At any rate, I proceeded to grab the sexiest looking rose of the batch, placed it in my cart, and made my way to the checkout line. After I bought my rose, I went back to the casting call with that much more confidence I was going to win the thing, but not before I left my cart in the middle of the Kroger parking lot like seemingly every other American consistently does.
To set the scene for you, when I returned to the club I was wearing my signature shark tank top, my Indy Racing League hat from 1995, and was holding a single red rose. You could say I was a little underdressed, but you’d be wrong. My demeanor masked my attire, because everyone in the club knew I was there for business, even if my business was pleasing handfuls of single and beautiful women. Speaking of women, the club was still full of nothing but women, which still had me puzzled. Anyway, I confidently walked up to the guy running the check in counter and told him that I was there for The Bachelor casting call. That’s when he dropped the hammer. The guy behind the counter told me that ABC was only looking for girls to be contestants on The Bachelor because they had already found a guy to be the actual bachelor.
He apparently thought that by wearing an earpiece and holding a clipboard, I’d be intimidated and would cower away. I wasn’t. I thought about using The Villain technique and saying “Do you know who I am?” but I instead explained how my agent told me about the gig and how he told me the part was essentially mine for the taking. The guy said he wasn’t in charge and when I asked if I could speak to who was in charge he told me “absolutely not.” I then went on to explain how I should be given a chance, if for no other reason than ABC has a new show coming out called Shark Tank and I was wearing a shark tank. Apparently that was too flimsy of logic for the clipboard guy. I dejectedly made my way toward the exit, but not before handing my rose to a random girl and asking her if she would “accept this rose” while I winked at her and blew her a kiss. If ABC would have saw that interaction they would have surely begged for me to be their bachelor.
It’s not that ABC already found their bachelor for the upcoming season (or that they didn’t specify that they were looking for chicks only) that’s got me upset. It’s that they failed to see the potential I have to benefit them in future seasons. I could have easily been the token off-the-wall guy on The Bachelorette that starts trouble with the other contestants and says weird stuff like “can I smell your hair?” on my dates (which is pretty much what I do on a daily basis). Or I could have posed as the brother of the bachelorette and thought of different things the contestants had to do to win my approval. I dare you to tell me watching high dollar investment bankers kiss my feet wouldn’t make for better television than the garbage they are currently airing. At the very least, on the next season of The Bachelor I could have played the role of the crazy ex-boyfriend of one of the contestants who shows up at the mansion begging for her to take him back. Imagine the possibilities.
America prides itself on being a country in which anybody can be anything. Americans like to believe that you are born into this country with a blank slate and over time you work towards becoming anything from a professional athlete to a notorious criminal (which, come to think of it, really isn’t that big of a range at all considering the two seemingly go hand-in-hand). The point is, all of you could have been LeBron James or Stephen Hawking if you really wanted to, according to your parents and teachers. Makes you wish you could turn back the clock and try a little harder, doesn’t it?
The fact of the matter is that it is becoming increasingly clear to me that I don’t live in the America I was told about as a kid. Sure a minority can become president and fat guys can occasionally score good-looking girls, but those have nothing to do with me and this is my blog so I’m going to continue to complain. This incident with ABC marks the second occasion this summer in which I haven’t even been given a chance to show what I’ve got. I’m not saying I would have knocked that casting call audition out of the park. I am saying that I would have at least hit a bases-clearing double, though. Again, getting told to go away by the NBA wasn’t all that big of a deal to me because I knew it was coming in some fashion anyway. But this garbage ABC pulled is taking it too far. They have no right to tell me that I can’t try out at a casting call that is only for women. Especially if you consider that it took me at least five minutes to get ready and ten minutes to drive to the place. So not only did I lose my pride at this casting call, I lost fifteen minutes of my life that I’ll never get back.