#I hope it dies. and I hope I can stop reading shit about Elon musk for like two fucking minutes
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Can Twitter finally just fucking implode I am so sick of hearing about that stupid ass website
#I also just fucking hate it and want it to die anyways#I’ve always hated it due to the insane influence it got in the publishing industry that makes it damn near impossible for some ppl to get#published or involved in the industry at all#like if you’re not on Twitter 24/7 or don’t have the right Twitter connections you literally cannot land a publishing deal el oh el#it was also the shift of so many writers having to do MOST of the marketing for their books rather than the publishing houses#which was ridiculous#like I dunno I literally don’t have the time/energy/socialization or networking skills to try and land an agent via the right fucking tweet#and I think it’s fucking stupid that that was a thing that started happening at all#ppl shouldn’t be pitching fucking books on TWITTER writers shouldn’t have to be public figures on Twitter for the sake of marketing#so I hate that stupid app and want it to fucking die so that new part of the industry goes down with it#like that is actually the main reason for my indescribable rage for Twitter#I hope it dies. and I hope I can stop reading shit about Elon musk for like two fucking minutes#also y’all sound fucking stupid with your ‘Elon is actually THIS dumb’ shit#because like yeah obviously he’s an idiot don’t get me wrong#but he’s not accidentally running Twitter into the ground just because he’s stupid#he’s deliberately trying to kill it because he never wanted to buy in the first place and wants it to become a write off#like yeah he’s still goddamn dumb but he’s NOT doing all this to try and make Twitter profitable el oh el#anyways. I’ll be quiet now y’all are just being annoying about this#kaz rambles
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Dinosaur Vacation Shirt
[POWER ON]
[cmd login, access code ********]
[Security question: What is your mother’s maiden name?]
[******]
[!]
[Access code confirmed]
[Hello! What would you like to do?]
[cmd network sync]
[Syncing to Marley Corporation Interspace Wi-Fi . . .]
[!]
[Connection confirmed.]
[!]
[ONE! New video transmission, sender: test facility 2345xHju, NORTH BASTION]
[Access transmission? Y/N]
[Y]
[cmd apply timestamp]
[21:30:20 timestamp applied]
[21:30:23 transmission status: incoming]
[21:30:27 transmission status: confirmed]
[21:30:57 transmission status: buffering…]
[21:31:02 Start transmission? Y/N]
[Y]
[21:31:22 Starting transmission. 3… 2… 1…]
Fuckin’ camera, come ON.
Damn red dust clogging everything up.
Ok, there.
I think we’re rolling.
I’m about to bite the big one. I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I’ve already lost a shit ton of blood, and I’m shaky as fuck. And I have no clue where the fucking med bay is in this damn rePark. And I’m wearing a fucking dinosaur-themed vacation shirt. Whoever finds me is going to think I was a moron.
Not that that matters.
Anyway, my guess is I’m not long for this world.
And what a world it has turned out to be.
I guess I should give a little background, considering I have no way of knowing where or when in the multiverse this damn transmission is gonna end up. If it’s even gonna end up anywhere. Oh well, human folly, all that.
Yeah.
So I’m on Amarsica. 2079. That’s what we’ve made of that red ball of dust people used to call Mars. Terraforming, blah blah blah. The name sucks, doesn’t it? Most of us old enough to remember Earth still just call it Mars. Anyway, the good ol’ US of A somehow found oil beneath the rocky surface, so you know the rest. Soon as someone pulled together a prototype for the giant, gleaming shell cities we Amarsicans call home, the U.S. invested. Government spent the last of what it had to finance terraforming on Mars to create a remote colony that could drill for crude, barrel it up, and ship it back via shuttle. I guess there was life on mars, once—we just missed it by a couple hundred thousand years. Weird thing about Mars is, there’s plenty oil, but there’s not that much water up here, at least not naturally occurring water. Yeah, there’s the polar ice caps, but if we were only relying on that to sustain the shell cities, we would have run out in about a decade or two. That’s why they built the H2O factories, out on Far Planet. Giant enclosed warehouses without oxygenized atmosphere—better to fuse hydrogen and oxygen in a vacuum in order to avoid something like the Hindenburg. It’s a decent job, rainmaking, but not one I’d want. More dangerous than rigging, by far, even if it does pay a doctor’s salary. Plus the commute out to Far Planet can take a week or more on transpo. I stick to the rigs that’re enveloped in their own safe terraforming bubbles, thanks.
I don’t really know how well the whole system works—as a colony of the U.S., we don’t get much news in what goes on down Earthside. Guess having us up here makes life for Earthbound U.S. citizens better. Finally working on implementing free healthcare down there, last I heard. Not up here. And boy do I know it.
Dammit, Candi would know what to do in this situation. She always did have an answer.
Anyway.
A buddy of mine growing up used to call Amarsica the Florida of space, whatever that means. Rich half’s Miami, poor half’s I don’t know, the swamp, I guess, if the swamp were just a dry patch of dirt. It’s not a great metaphor, but you get the idea. Income gap’s out of control.
I was maybe four when we moved out here in 2033. My family—all doctors, except me—were part of the first colonization wave. This planet was supposed to be an outpost of sorts, a military base. You know, the whole China thing. But then old-ass, life-extending-nanobot-filled Elon Musk and his people jumped all over it, and started creating ultra-lux resorts for the uber rich in the 2040s, and, well. Amarsica became the premiere vacation destination, or at least lush, green East Planet did, anyway. Dusty, parched West Planet, where I grew up, is still all refineries and oilfields. West Planet is the servants’ quarters of Mars.
I live with my girlfriend Candi in a busted old Airstream, at least before she died. She had a kid, a teenage girl—blue hair, piercings, a black and grey hoodie with holes in the sleeves—and I got on the kid’s good side by building her a little A/C-capable shed of her own next to the trailer. The kid and I weren’t close, not really, but I loved her too, as an extension of Candi. Or maybe as an extension of myself. I’m not sure where the affection came from, but it was real, and it was there, and it was as awkward as a giant moving box in the tiny trailer with us anytime we interacted. Where was the boundary? Who was I to her? Who was she to me? All I knew was that I really, reallydidn’t want to mess up the kid’s life. So generally I kept my distance.
The kid was a total pro on the hover. Suited for math, like Candi was. Analytical. She was smart. Wary. Good at the things she wanted to be good at. The kid wasn’t a big fan of me, sure, and despite all her smarts, she was never interested in school. She carried a messenger bag with a neon green SLACKER patch everywhere she went, hover folded up and stashed away next to whatever book she was reading that week. She didn’t have many friends, but that didn’t seem to bother her much. She was totally focused on her plan to go on to be a hover champ. Candi was always taking her to far planet tourneys with the hope that some engineering firm would sponsor the kid—the X Games had surged in popularity on Earth since Amarsica’s far planet low-grav atmo sections provided bigger, sicker air than ever, and since the invention of hovers in general. It’s now or never, the kid always said. Hover scouts only want boarders in their teens. I understood the feeling. She knew who she was, what she wanted, and how to get it. She had to focus on that goal, didn’t want to miss her window.
But since Candi died, she’d lost that focus. That’s how I knew she was really hurting. The kid hadn’t even been back on the hover since the day Candi got sick.
That moment is etched in my memory, can’t shake it for shit.
Candi burst into the Airstream at five P.M., carrying bags of airsealed fresh grosh and enough printables for the next two weeks. Today was errand day, I knew; second Friday of the month. Candi was a nurse down at the off-rig hospital in New Pasadena, the one where I was usually stationed. The one with the most injuries. Keeps a nurse busy. Keeps us on our toes. Candi plopped a bag of Cheezballs on the counter, and the kid, trailing her, blue hair shagged down over her eyes like the latest popstar, hover in hand, grabbed the bag with her free hand and ripped it open with her teeth.
“Manners,” Candi scolded. The kid made eye contact with her and spat out the ripped top of the plastic bag. Then she headed back outside.
“Hover,” she offered as explanation, then let the door slam behind her.
“How was your day?” I asked Candi.
“Oh you know, the usual,” she beamed and popped a ChickenCaz cartridge into the kitchen printer. The machine whirred to life and started laying stripes of puff pastry crust down in a perfect rectangle in Candi’s old stoneware casserole dish with the ducks on it. “Lots of blood and guts. But that’s the best part about it.” She smiled and leaned in for a kiss.
“You’re disgusting,” I said and she smiled again. I sat down in the chair by the TV to watch the kid out the window.
“She just broke up with her girlfriend, by the way,” Candi said from the kitchen.
I watched the kid out the window. She was doing flips on the hover in the patch of dirt that served as our yard, tossing a cheeseball into the air and then zooming up and over to catch it in her mouth at the top of each flip. The red dust plains stretched endless behind her, the bluish meniscus of the East Planet terraforming bubble just visible as a glinting reflection of the sunset on the horizon.
“Girlfriend? Wasn’t she just dating a guy?”
Candi scoffed. “Carl, she’s not limited to just one kind of attraction.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “I just—she moves on fast, is all.”
“Yeah, well, she’s a teenager,” Candi said. I heard the sounds of her stacking the grosh in the fridge. “They do that.”
“You think we need to talk to her about it?” I asked. It was hard to tell when the kid was broken up over something, or at least it used to be. Now it was painfully clear.
“Nah,” Candi said. “You know Bryn. She’s resilient, and she—”
A clatter of grosh packets, the horrible sound of a body crumpling to the ground. The glass of water she’d been holding shattered on the faux tiles of the Airstream’s floor.
I jumped to my feet. Outside, the kid fell off her hover, sprinted inside.
“Mom!?” she yelled.
“Candi!”
She blinked, came to. A little fuzzy, unhurt, at least from what we could tell that day. But there it was. The beginning of the constant fatigue and the rapid weight loss, of the doctor’s office trips, of our knowledge of the badness in her bones.
The beginning of the end.
And it would end, only six months later, even though the doctors had given her five years, easy. Even untreated, she should have stayed longer. She shouldn’t have died.
[cmd pause footage]
[cmd fast forward]
[cmd stop action]
[cmd play footage]
[!]
[re-enter access code to continue]
[********]
[Thank you. Footage rolling in 3, 2, 1]
None of us had ever really been to East Planet. The hospital was over there, the one we took Candi to. And we’d make the annual trip to go vote at the ballots. But we hadn’t spent time there. Not long enough to really experience it. And it is an experience.
There are the hyper-developed suburbs for the uber wealthy, massive custom houses placed atop long stretching green lawns like crown jewels, glimmering white colonials, spired and gothic gray Victorians, the bright yellow of enormous, Spanish-style haciendas. There are trees, too: every kind, from massive, sprawling oaks to delicate cherry trees covered in blush pink blossoms. Pristine private lakes glisten with the freshest water available from Far Planet.
If you’re thinking Hollywood, you’re not wrong. A lot of big movie stars live in East Planet, now—well, all the aging movie stars, anyway. The retirees. Tons of former professional athletes. Tom Brady has a mansion that literally floats in the sky—some kind of specialized low-grav build. A lot of ex-football players (from back before it was banned) come up to Amarsica for the top notch brain damage treatments, if they can still afford the trip. I hear they’ve opened a few drug rehab facilities up here, too, for the ones who really need a change of scenery in order to recover. Like I said. East Planet has become a kind of wellness Mecca, for those who have the cash. You can get full-on skin replacements, be launched into orbit for a year as an anti-aging measure, dynamic gene editing, and more, if you have the money for it. You can also get state of the art cancer treatment for what Candi had. But not if you’re living on a rigger’s salary.
There are two main corporations who run the whole thing. The Marley Corporation and something called CorpSec, which also runs the refineries where people like me work. It’s not an official monopoly, but it’s pretty clear to anyone who looks twice that there’s no other competition, and that the Marley Corporation and CorpSec are at least copacetic, if not wholly owned by the same people. Whatever. I guess this is what happens at the far end of capitalism. Monopolies aren’t monopolies, but only because now they’re corporate oligarchies. Some fifty years ago, they say there was a move toward socialism, but once oil on Mars became a legitimate prospect, all the legislators swung back to the old standard, dollar signs in their eyes.
[cmd pause footage]
[cmd fast forward]
[cmd stop action]
[cmd play footage]
[!]
[re-enter access code to continue]
[********]
[Thank you. Footage rolling in 3, 2, 1]
I wasn’t always like this, bitter and pissed off at the East Planet elite. But after Candi, the extravagance felt more unfair than it ever had before. And I wanted to see it, in person. The kid and I deserved that much. If it were so important to keep these movie stars alive, when our Candi had to die without treatment, then hell. The kid and I were going to see them, at least once.
The only semi-affordable trip to East Planet, these days, is a trip to one of the ReParks, specialized natural habitats for all of the rich people who opted to become ReAnimals. I mean, yeah, the reParks are mostly out of style now, but they were all the rage for a solid couple of decades. Anybody famous who’d died in, I don’t know, the ‘40s or ‘50s are still out there kickin,’ in some form or another, their consciousness implanted into a custom, lab-grown animal synthetic. If you believe the doctors who perform the implantation, your entire personality is preserved; it’s really you in there, only you’re a tiger or a bear now, or whatever. Apparently, there’s a full communication system in the synthetic too—you can’t actually speak, because you’re an animal now, but you can text back and forth with each other, with human family and friends. Pretty state of the art stuff.
I figured a trip to the newest of the parks, the biggest and most extravagant, would be a nice distraction. A way to try to get back to our lives. A bookmark. Or a kind of eraser, even better. We deserved it, after everything. We deserved a look at these East Planet riches, at the people who wouldn’t give Candi the medicine she needed. It would be cathartic, poetic.
At least that’s what I thought then. This shit—agh, sorry, still stings where fabric’s stretched across the skin—none of us deserved this shit.
Still, Candi would have liked coming here, damage be damned. She was obsessed with the weekly tabloids. The idea of stalking through an artificial, Jurassic rainforest in order to get a glimpse of Jason Momoa as a reStego was totally up her alley. But Candi was also an adrenaline junkie, loved an adventure, whatever it was. I guess the kid took after her in that way. I took a little vial of her ashes with me, for old times’ sake. Still got ‘em around my neck, see? Guess I won’t be going out alone after all.
It wasn’t just Candi, though. Everybody I know wants to get out here just to try and guess which of the ReRaptors housed Beyonce’s consciousness, see which of the ReBrontos Meryl Streep was lounging around in. They all could picture themselves laughing about how stupid Bill Gates would look as RePteradactyl, with those leathery wings and that awkward cone head. But deep down, each and every one of them wants to reincarnate as a dino.
Why? That’s easy. When it comes to reincarnations, the bigger and flashier the animal, the higher the price tag. Why do you think there are so goddamn many reRats around? Hell, if I decided to reincarnate, I’d probably only have enough for a reRat, and that’s being optimistic. Most people these days can’t afford much more than reLivestock, at the most. The rePredators are for hedge fund managers—nobody I know has planned for anything flashier than a reCat.
When it first came about, voluntary reincarnation, a lot of big wigs and celebs were still feeling weird about supplanting their conciousnesses into an animal’s body. Which, you know, makes sense, if you haven’t gotten used to the idea. I mean PETA had a conniption about the whole thing, of course, but technically, since all the reAnimals were grown from dead pig skin cells in Petri dishes out of Mars Settlement labs, they’re not really animals, and anyway in the end the Supreme Court dismissed the case. Who gives a fuck about the rights of labgrown animal shells that aren’t even born with consciousness? Not the governing body of the United States, that’s for damn sure. Especially if those living animal skins offer a shot at immortality for humans. Ain’t no human gives a damn once there’s something in it for them, and that’s the truth.
Anyway, things started off small, like they always do. The first reRat. The first reDog. Then after a few years more, the first reTiger, Siberian. All Instagram famous. More and more people decided to reincarnate before they passed. Before the whole process was made affordable, families bankrupted their savings to give grandma a new lease on life, this time as a reWolf or a reHorse or even a reDolphin, once reCorp opened up the controversial ocean-based conservancies on Earth. Damn, CorpSec had a hell of a time regulating the waters once global warming picked up, though. Not that defending the land-based conservancies for the reincarnated was any easier. I can’t even imagine the hell those Grandma reDolphins are in, now that the moon’s orbit’s been artificially slowed. I’m sure the oceans are all kinds of fucked. But I haven’t been back Earthside, not since I left in 2035.
Since last year, the news has been going on about an Everglades-themed reGator park—imagine that, wanting to go vacation at a place where a bunch of reGators running around with the brains of dead middle-class boomers behind the wheel. But yeah, the park is apparently real, complete with reGator wrestling and, some say, even reGator hunting, for the right price if you know a guy. Though if that were the case, CorpSec would have been on them like a bunch of reRats on a discarded bag of synthetic barbeque Taterlike wedges at the transpo. Say what you will about the reincarnation biz, the reRats have really become a problem for pre-Re—or OG, or whatever the fuck people are calling it now—human Amarsica colonists like yours truly. They’re everywhere, digging through the trash to suck the leftover fat ink out of ChickenCaz and TurkRoast cartridges, attacking family picnics at parks, the whole deal. At least Amarsica has no natural animal life, only synthetic reAnimals. Otherwise, we’d be overrun. There’d be fights, too, I imagine—animal vs reAnimal, and I think that kinda takes the whole point out of getting reincarnated at all. If there’s a chance something else will kill you why go to the trouble—and expense—of jumping your consciousness into a vulnerable animal skin on your deathbed?
[cmd pause footage]
[cmd fast forward]
[cmd stop action]
[cmd play footage]
[!]
[re-enter access code to continue]
[********]
[Thank you. Footage rolling in 3, 2, 1]
So the kid and I load up on the transpo, and zip off to East Planet. They tell us on Comm that we’re staying in a state of the art reResort, newly purchased from The Marley Corporation, the people who invented the reincarnation industry in the first place. The trip on transpo only took 30 minutes, and then we had arrived at the intersection of celebrity culture and the fear of death: the official reDinosaur habitat. They had each of us put on some shitty dinosaur printed vacation shirt—like a Hawaiian shirt, only filled with t-rex and triceratops instead of surfers and bikini babes. And then they snapped a picture.
The place was sprawling, and everything in it was huge, custom-grown in a lab somewhere to match various periods on Earth: Jurassic, Triassic, whatever. Neatly groomed gravel paths wound through enormous boulders and redwoods, and pristine signage listed both the kinds of reDinos you could see in each enclosure as well as a Who’s Who of the celebrities in each environment. The whole thing was at once totally surreal and less interesting than I had hoped, and I worried for the kid, who seemed to be barely tolerating the trip.
Later that day, the kid and I were leaning against the fence of the reBronto habitat, where Meryl Streep was calmly eating the leaves off of a patently accurate Jurassic era deciduous tree. The sun was getting low in the sky already, and we had only been there for a few hours. I was starting to think this whole trip was a bad idea, but then the kid said something.
“What do you think Mom would have picked?”
“What do you mean picked?” I asked. I was startled; it was the first unprompted thing the kid had said to me in months.
“You know,” the kid said, blowing her blue bangs out of her face. “What kind of dinosaur do you think she would have chosen, if she could be one?”
“Kid, I don’t think we could have afforded…” I started.
The kid rolled her eyes. “Forget it,” she said. “Heaven forbid you have a little imagination for once.”
Something sank in me. It sucked, because she was right. I kicked a stone on the ground and it skittered along the gravel sidewalk before hopping the curb and disappearing into the brush just beyond the enclosure fence. I looked over at the kid. She was leaning on the fence, stone still. The way she held herself now, like if she relaxed, even a little, her armor wouldn’t work, was so unnatural to the laid-back slouch she usually adopted.
I watched her for a minute. We stood maybe five feet apart, like we were strangers. Her eyes shone with sudden tears, and she set her jaw, willing them back. I thought I should move closer. I was technically her guardian now, not exactly a parent, but close enough, and I thought of her as some kind of relation—I had never had kids, before her, and she wasn’t even technically my kid. But still, I wanted to do right by her. I wanted to protect her, help her. But I also didn’t want to hurt. I reached out a hand, then thought better of it—the kid didn’t like physical contact, not unless it came from Candi. That might make things even worse.
“What about archaeopteryx?” I said, keeping my tone as casual as possible.
The kid glanced up at me, cracked a small smile. “Yeah, maybe.”
“It’s the only one that’s special enough,” I said. The kid stepped closer.
“You think they have any archaeopteryx here yet?” she asked after a moment. “We could, I don’t know, go look at them or whatever. If you want.”
“Yeah!” I said, and the kid scoffed at the enthusiasm in my voice.
When we walked away to go find a map, the kid quickened her step to keep pace with me, bumped my shoulder with her own.
“Hey, thanks,” she said. “For taking us here. It helps, weirdly.”
[cmd pause footage]
[cmd fast forward]
[cmd stop action]
[cmd play footage]
[!]
[re-enter access code to continue]
[********]
[Thank you. Footage rolling in 3, 2, 1]
Of course Kanye was the first reDinosaur. Who else did you think it would be? I think he was also the first one that monster took down, too—the whole throng of starfuckers we were with freaked the hell out. I mean, Kanye’s also a raptor, or he’s a reRaptor, anyway, but it was no contest. When the real raptor appeared, park staff tried to set up a Comm with it; there are no portals in the rePark—that’s military grade tech—so that it materialized at all was a big issue. Clearly something went wrong somewhere. Also, the raptor’s coloration was all off and different. reDinos are all kinds of bright colors: pink, purple, electric blue… whatever their buyers want. This raptor was olive green and black, all-natural, with no excess additions, and there was none of the lag that happens with reAnimals. No slowed reflexes, nothing. Just slashed right through the Kanye reRaptor’s jugular. Sprayed blood everywhere. I mean, everywhere. And then, well, then it leapt onto us, shredded us. Everybody scattered. I mean, you can see the damage—sliced me clean open from my shoulder to my hip, right across my chest. Never been more scared in my life, man, I’ll tell ya.
[Transmission error. Buffering… high res will return in 5, 4, 3, 2…]
carl what the hell are you doing we need to get you to the med bay
Kid? I thought—that raptor had you cornered.
yeah well i thought the same about you
How did you get out of there?
i don’t want to talk about it
Kid, are you okay?
are you talking to a fucking video camera
Yeah. Hoping for Fox Intergalactic to pick me up for a new reality show about bleeding out with your family on vacation.
shut up carl
jesus you are really ripped up
Yeah I don’t think we’re gonna be able to salvage the shirt they gave us.
bummer. that thing’s probably worth like 4,000 dollars on eBay right now.
What?
yeah it’s got Kanye’s blood on it or whatever. people pay out the ass for that creepy shit.
Could have paid for my med bay bills, huh Kid?
dad, don’t try to make jokes, okay? you suck at it
what
why are you looking at me like that
stop
It’s just, you never call me Dad.
ugh. dad, can we not?
dad
DAD
come on, you asshole, stay with me
…
fuck
fuck, the raptor
HHHHSHHHSSSSSSSS REEEEET AWKHHHSSSS OOoOOOoO
…
…
crunch crunch slurp crunch draaaaaaaaaag REET OoooOOOOooO
oh my god
it took dad
how am i going to get out of here
how am i going to get home
[end of transmission]
[cmd draft report]
[Recipient access code?]
[********]
[Confirm recipient access code.]
[********]
[What is the report?]
[Test 207 complete. Conclusion: Organically
grown dinosaurs distinguish synthetics as prey. Some
collateral damage. Alert CPS on-planet of orphan girl.
Description: short blue hair, medium build. Moderate force authorized.]
[cmd send report]
[!]
[Report sent.]
[What would you like to do with the transmission?]
[cmd delete]
[Are you sure you want to delete this transmission?]
[Y]
[Delete function will permanently delete transmission. Continue?]
[Y]
[enter access code to confirm delete]
[access code ********]
[!]
[Delete confirmed.]
[cmd log out]
[Are you sure?]
[Y]
[Logged out.]
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‘The Bachelorette’ bios are out and all the contestants want you to know they’ve had sex before
Congrats, men!
The three biggest events in a season of The Bachelor or Bachelorette are Draft Day, Opening Day, and the Finals. Or, translated out of Sportspeak and into English: The day the bios of the the idiot-bozo-morons looking for D-list fame love are released, the first episode, and the last episode, when one of the idiot-bozo-morons gets chosen as the future spouse of the person they met ten weeks ago.
Wednesday was Draft Day: Yesterday, the good people over at ABC introduced us to the men vying for the heart of Bachelorette Rachel Lindsey, an accomplished lawyer who loves Prince, Michael Jackson, basketball, and is probably far too good for any of them.
I know this because Rachel was one of the final three contestants from last season, and she’s funny, smart, interesting, beautiful, and way cooler than most of the people who churn through this franchise’s fame-making gears. She was 100% too good for Nick “handsome software salesman” Viall, whose essence was that of a corn muffin that didn’t get baked for quite long enough.
But here we are, and, in an act of selfless service journalism, I read through the bios of the dental hygienists and marketing managers so that you don’t have to. They’re all here for the Right Reasons: a couple hundred thousand new Instagram followers. Sorry, I mean true and everlasting love. Here are 13 takeaways:
1. Of course we have two “Blakes”
Blake K. ...
.... was a marine and Blake E. ...
... is an “aspiring drummer” who says his ex-girlfriend was “crazy.” So right out of the gate I can tell you that Blake E. is the lesser Blake, which is saying something, because they’re both named Blake.
2. Congrats on the sex!
The biggest thing I gleaned from reading the bios of these men — who, though more diverse than past seasons, still manage to look all alike — is that they really want us to know they’ve engaged in sexual intercourse before. Check it out:
One of the Blakes (I can’t remember which, and let’s be honest, it doesn’t matter) said he wants to watch the new 50 Shades of Grey movie because he loves “taboo sexy stuff.” Newsflash, Blake: 50 Shades wasn’t even that sexy. Dakota Johnson and whats-his-name who played Christian Grey had about as much chemistry as a pair of two-by-fours who happen to be in close proximity. I bet Blake is bad at sex.
Bryce says he once caught a girl's hair on fire once while having sex with her, and that he’s like a “fresh drink of water with a jolt of lightning” in the bedroom. MAYDAY, RACHEL: Don’t have sex with Bryce, because you’ll get electrocuted and die.
Dean doesn’t want women to bite him in the bedroom. This seems like a risky thing to say off the bat, because what if Rachel’s into that?
Diggy wants us to know he once went on a trip to Cancun on Spring Break where he participated in a "sexual positions" contest. Sick, dude, nice.
Jebidiah says he once had sex off the continental divide on a glacier in the mountains, which seems like a sneaky way of telling us he’s rich.
Jonathan says he “usually lasts a long time (in a good way.)” I just ... these guys are the worst.
Kyle had an ex who was into “BDSM and introduced me to being a dom. Interesting, but don't like hurting people, so it's weird. Fun with her though.” Stop pretending, Kyle. You loved it.
Mohit says Tabasco is the wildest thing he’s ever done in the bedroom. I don’t know whether he means he put hot sauce in some places hot sauce shouldn’t go, or that he once ate a burrito in bed. I would respect the latter more.
3. Everyone loves the rock and matthew mccoughney and denzel and elon musk
This is the most predictable thing about any season of this goddamn franchise: Dudes love The Rock and Elon Musk. Usually they throw in Mark Cuban, too, but this time the majority went with Denzel or Matthew McConaughey.
4. WTF?
Here’s a list of messed up shit from the bios:
Alex once ate a live salamander.
Diggy was stranded on a toilet for hours in 5th grade. This sounds avoidable. Like, just get up.
Diggy also once spent all day with a girl, had sex with her, then pretended to be asleep when she found out her brother was missing so he wouldn’t have to help her.
FREEZE FRAME, RECORD SCRATCH: WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL!? WHAT KIND OF MONSTER ARE YOU, DIGGY?
Grant says his favorite magazine is Playboy, and he added a “;)”.
Why is Jack Stone’s name Jack Stone? Is he the only one who gets to have a last name? Or is his first name two names, and those names are Jack and Stone? I’m confused.
Jebediah says he likes South Africa because of its “great coffee, tea, wine, fruit, food, beautiful animals and landscapes, amazing people and very real problems like HIV and violence.”
Kenny once gave a woman different Edible Arrangements every day for a week.
Lucas says his least ideal date would be going to a funeral.
Mohit isn’t here for the Right Reasons: He says he wants to be on the show because “everyone tells me I'm made for TV/movies. Doesn't mean I'm out here hoping for that, but I would like to break into writing or acting.”
Calling it now: Mohit is going to be the first person other contestants turn on.
5. Adam deserves a swirlie
Adam says his favorite actor is Jennifer Lawrence “because she is every girl's goal,” which is patently untrue and makes me want to punch a wall. The most romantic gift he ever received was a threesome because it was his birthday.
6. I don’t know what any of these guys’ jobs mean
The contestants’ jobs all sound like ones you’d give yourself on a fake LinkedIn account to convince your parents you actually have a career and aren’t just smoking weed in the basement all day long. Except for Jonathan, who says his job is a Tickle Monster, which is a noble profession.
We have: an Information Systems Supervisor, an Aspiring Drummer, an Education Software Manager, a Startup Recruiter, an Executive Recruiter, a Consulting Firm CEO, and a Whaboom (I don’t think it’s a thing).
Michael was a professional basketball player, but apparently he just played in Bulgaria for a few years. This reminds me of when Jordan Rodgers said he was a pro football player because he got cut from three NFL teams and played for a real in Canada.
Peter is a moron. He says he wants to be professional football player for a day since “it is my favorite sport with an awesome paycheck. They're superstars for playing a sport, a game. It just seems so easy.” NARRATOR: It wasn’t.
7. Everyone loves their mom
This does not mean they’re feminists, but I guarantee some will try to tell you it does.
8. These asshats need to relax
Bryan wants to be Bill Gates just because he's so selfless and charitable.
Bryce feels like handwritten letters “are one of the purest forms of materialized emotion.”
Demario says he’s perfect.
Iggy’s favorite magazine is the Harvard Business Review
Jamey would be someone less fortunate for a day so he could “appreciate his life more.”
Jebediah’s past dogs were all half wolf, so you know he’s tough.
9. Future storylines
Blake E. was engaged for 48 hours, so he’s probably capital D damaged with plenty of trust issues. Blake K hates sharks, so the producers will make him swim with them. Dean doesn’t believe in marriage — thinks it’s an “institutionalized sham” — so that’ll definitely be a point of tension. Demario loves Prince, too, so he and Rachel will go on a Prince-themed date and everything will be purple. This is going to sound callous, but several of these guys have mothers who’ve died, so that’ll be A Thing.
10. There are some weird clothes opinions
Brady likes Lululemon, so I’m going to call him Lululemon Brady for the entire show. One of the guys — I can’t remember who and there’s no way I’m going back through all of the bios to find out — says he used to wear JNCOs.
Here’s a picture of JNCOs:
11. Today, in low-key sexism
Bryan thinks sisters need brothers to protect them.
12. Predictions
Calling it now: Anthony wins. He taught in Indonesia and we know he knows how to read, because he’s says a Haruki Murakami book is his favorite. I also know someone he used to work with, and she says he’s a good guy, so it’s Anthony’s basket into which I’m putting all my eggs.
13. One last thing
One of my coworkers has a theory that being the Bachelorette isn’t about looking for love, it’s about figuring out which of the contestants won’t murder you. And when you look at it that way, the show makes a whole lot more sense.
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