Ode to Earl, we hardly knew ye.
Derrick Rose found himself in a boiling pot of chicken broth earlier this week when he said that he does not want to sit in “meetings all sore or be at my son’s graduation all sore just because of something I did in the past,” and then promptly went out and re-injured a different part of his sore-all-around body. The 2011 NBA MVP continues to seem light years removed from relevance, but he has now stepped a few bounds outside of reality, at least in the eyes of some angry fans. Elsewhere, the Grizzlies are starting to Grizz in a monumental, significant way, and NBA Commissioner Adam Silver has called for legalized and regulated gambling, surely to the delight of at least one TwH contributor.
It can be difficult to explain my obsession to even my closest friends, let alone the anonymous masses of the Internet, but I’ll do my best. You see, I’m obsessed with The Bachelor.
Yes, I’m openly admitting I find enjoyment in watching ABC’s reality dating television show, whose target audience is middle aged women with too much time on their hands. For those unacquainted, The Bachelor features a hulking ball of muscle that spouts clichés about love as he casually courts 27 women, who are hopped up on cheap champaign and pheromones, with the intention of finding a bride. The show isn’t entertaining merely because of the alcohol fueled diatribes about love or the over-the-top romantic settings in which the producers set each date. It’s the ability to play along at home.