I'm Applying To Be On The Bachelor! A Guest Blog Post

The other day my good friend Stacey (@IEatMyKidzSnack on Twitter and the author of THIS funny-as-hell blog) and I got into one of our fantasy wars.

If you haven’t seen them before they kinda go a little bit like this.

Well this recent battle was about how awful we thought the other person would be as a contestant on The Bachelor.

That led to an email from Stacey to me which said, “I’m filling out the official Bachelor submission questionnaire for your right now.”

I responded, “If you do, I’ll post it as my first guest blog ever.”

And well…here it is.

I hope you laugh as much as my gap-toothed dumb-ass did.

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A Guest Blog Post By Stacey "Lady of the House"

www.IEatMyKidzSnacks.com

After a recent “I fantasize” tweet battle with my good friend, WhyIsDaddyCrying I decided to see what would happen if he wasn’t a happily married father of two and actually applied to be the next Bachelor.

THE BACHELOR QUESTIONNAIRE

Name: Don’t you know who I am? I’m @whyisdaddycryin on Twitter.

How did you hear about our search? Are you kidding? Ever since I was a boy I’ve dreamed of being surrounded by hot chicks with daddy issues desperate to hang out in a hot tub with me and compete for a crack at ALL this:

Occupation:  I’m a vegetarian and a blogger. Plus I started a movement called “Pants Optional Friday” where I advocate no one wears pants on Fridays. Frankly, this would work to my advantage at those Rose Ceremonies. Maybe change my line to, “Ladies, will you accept my balls?”

Annual salary: Let’s just say, I like a nice Sizzler salad bar once a quarter and even though I’m a vegetarian, I roll my own sushi.

What is your highest level of education?  Yes.

Are you a legal resident of the United States? Yup, unless there’s a place where hookers & weed are legal. What? Where? I’d like to change my answer.

Where did you grow up? I grew up in North (hick) North Carol (hick) North Carolina. Sorry, I have a case of the hickups.

*No offense to anyone from North Carolina. I just like to get daddy’s goat.  Since he probably fucked it while growing up in North Carolina.

Have you ever been arrested, charged or convicted of a crime of any type? Does an inmate shit in his cell? There may have been one time. What? I read dolphins love human contact.

Have you ever had a temporary restraining order issued against you? Please give details and dates: Yes, but it was terminated when Mr. Coleman passed away.

Have you ever been a performer, participant or contestant on television, radio or in film? Does really amateur porn count?

Do you drink alcoholic beverages? Yes, yes I do. Let me take you through what a “one on one date” would look like. First I’d have a cocktail while putting on my makeup getting ready to go out.

Next I’d do 5 or 6 shots of Jaeger in the limo all the while trying to fit my massive head out the top so I could yell “I’m The Motha Fuckin’ Bachelor bitches.” I’d spend the next several hours alternating between wine and Maker’s Mark and Sprite.

While eating annoying things like hummus and sprouts I’d talk incessantly about the weather and high cost of oil. I’d end the night by stroking my date’s hair, fumbling with her bra and vomiting into the hot tub. The same applies for a “group date” with the addition of trying to milk each girl like she was a dairy cow.

** This was the part of the application where they asked for age, height, weight, etc. I felt those questions were inconsequential compared to what I feel ladies need to know if they choose to use the overnight date card with WhyIsDaddyCrying.

Degree of halitosis: Somewhere between baby diaper and rotting corpse.

Diameter of space between teeth:

Degree of erectile dysfunction:  Moderate unless I’m watching “Meerkat Manor” then I’m fine.

How many days in between your period: N/A. But every 28 days I cry into a Snuggie because I feel unappreciated & bloated.

Brain Size: A full 4 ¼ inches. Yeah baby.

Thickness of back hair: Let’s just say there better be at least 3 pool skimmers.

Please describe your ideal mate in terms of physical attraction & in terms of personality attraction.  She’s got to have boobs, a butt and a face. Oh and hands and a vagina. She has to laugh at all my jokes and be smart and stuff. This is hard. No seriously it is. I’m like a pre-pubescent boy when I talk about boobs. Did I mention boobs?

How many serious relationships have you been in? 6

What happened to end those relationships? Came out as a lesbian, moved to Dikshit, India, attempted murder (her on me), rehab, eaten by a dingo and again, lesbianism.

What are your hobbies? I drink a shit-ton of beer, I love music, and I pleasure myself to pictures of Bea Arthur run. I also take zumba.

What is the unique talent of which you are most proud? I can fart the alphabet. I mean shart. I can shart the alphabet.

List the 3 adjectives that best describe you: Smoove, Phat and Foine.

Do you have any tattoos? If yes, what are they? And where are they located on your body? Yes.

Have you ever been married? Look a helicopter!

If yes, how many times? No, seriously isn’t it a prerequisite to arrive in a helicopter at least 3 times on “The Bachelor?” I assume you provide Depends Undergarments for men who have problems with high altitude and vibration?

Have you ever been divorced? Not yet but please, please don’t show this application to anyone who claims to be “married to me.”

Do you have any children? How is this relevant to me getting drunk and cliff diving with scantily clad women?

What accomplishment are you most proud of?  Ugh. Shit. FINE! MY FAMILY. I am most proud of my beautiful wife and children.

Why would you be a great husband? Because, well…………read my blog.

Why are you America’s Most Eligible Bachelor? I’m not.

*In the end WhyIsDaddyCrying would realize no amount of free tail is worth giving up the amazing family he allows all of us to see glimpses of on his blog.

**Also you have to submit a picture and video. We all know after seeing that “gap toothed bastard” all we’d hear is women openly weeping and limo tires screeching.

Why I'd Suck as a Figure Skater

Last night I turned the Olympics on and would you believe it—a couple dressed like my worst 80’s nightmare were throwing themselves around a circular sheet of ice to some of the world’s most awful music. I thought for a second the Russian Mafia had taken over American airways, but then I remembered – oh yeah, it’s prime time…of course NBC will play NOTHING but Winter Olympic figure skating.

Being the good American I am, I noticed I’d put the remote control down on my lap and immediately thought, “uuugh…it’s all the way down there. I don’t have the energy to reach way down there and pick up the remote to change the channel.” So I watched a couple of these talented, young, scary, boarder-line psychedelic athletes in their sport and was pretty damn amazed.

That shit takes talent. It takes years of practice, skill, balance, endurance, and a keen eye for horrific costumes. So then I thought…I could do that…until I saw the first twirling, leaping, landing of the skaters on ice. Then I thought – no…no I couldn’t.

And here are the top 10 reasons why I’d totally suck as a figure skater:

1) If you ever want to see me eat dirt or pavement faster than Octomom can find endorsements for birthing a country, just yell “ice” and I’ll hit the ground in a heartbeat.

2) Have you seen the crap these skaters wear? My partner would HATE me. We would be two minutes from having to perform and no one would be able to find me because I’d still be in front of a mirror making sure my “package” looked just right in tights for network TV.

3) The whole time they’re skating people are snapping pictures left and right. My ADD would kick-in something fierce and by the time I’d chased down just one of those shiny bright objects my partner would be a broken, bloody mess on ice.

4) I’ll admit it…I haven’t bought new clothes in quite a while. The wifey and our friends laugh at me because 90% of my clothes have at least one hole in them. But for shit-sake, I can still dress better than those bastards. Did you see the guy in the American couple? He looked like a mix between a pirate and Greg Brady. I rest my case.

5) I hate things on my feet. It’s taken me years to just master running, but skating? When I was 19 I went rollerblading with the wifey and being the stud-muffin I am, I only wore shorts…no shirt, pads, nothing. Within two minutes I was covered in blood, grass stains, mud, and shame. Twenty minutes later I was at Wal-Mart demanding a refund.

6) It would take me a year just to pick that one song…that perfect song for our skating performance. And I just know my partner would pick Wham! And then I’d have to call in a favor with Tonya Harding and the whole American figure skating world would be scarred yet again…

7) I’d try to be the NASCAR skater of the Olympics. I’d roll out on the ice with stickers all over me for sponsors that read: Jagermeister. Guinness. Legalize marijuana. Ford, cause our cars stop. Vegetarainism, cause beer is technically a meal.

8) I couldn’t for the life of me, meet a group of dudes, have them ask, “hey man, what do you do for a living?” and say, “Oh, I’m a figure skater! So…uh…how about the Bears this season huh?!”

9) My tourettes would totally fuck me up. I’d have to spend millions hiring a choreographer who could work head twitches, blinks, and other obscure body flailing into a routine that actually looked like something other than a fish out of water dying.

10) When I’d be sitting there on the bench, waiting for our score, after our performance, they’d never put a live camera on me…I’d be all, “that was fucking awesome. Holy shit we rocked that. Someone beer me!! Seriously – throw me a beer and tell the other teams to suck it cause they just got owned. Fuckin’ owned!!”

I’ll stick to running and trying to make sure I don’t bust my ass in the process.

Back to My Southern Roots

So I’ll start off by apologizing to my blog readers who’ve given me shit (rightfully-so) for ignoring their giggle needs. I’ve had a rough 4 days…but I’m back!!!

So, my grandmother died. She was 90…I grew up with her as a huge part of my life….she rocked….and now she’s gone. But, she’s happier now so it was more of a celebration. Except, the celebration happened in Anderson, S.C.

Now let me just toss in there that I grew up in North Carolina. Born, raised, went to college, got my first job, first blow job, first relationship with a “little person and his pet horse,” first beer, first throw-up in front of my mom after drinking a whole bottle of MD 20/20 and trying to play it off like I had the stomach flu, first masturbation scene and first girlfriend who still journals about how badly I messed herup…all in North Carolina. So I love the state, SOME of its people, hate its ideals, wish the tobacco industry would rot in hell, and wish all racist bastards would burn a slow death. But other than that…I love it!

So my grandmother’s funeral was on Sunday at 3 p.m. An extremely convenient time for someone who lives in Chicago and has a boss that…well, let’s just say, gets inconvenienced by his worker’s personal life’s problems. But I sucked it up.

Saturday I hopped a plane to Raleigh, N.C., where my brother lives. My bro is just over 2 years older than me and has turned into one kick-ass friend. He’s got a wife who should be knighted for what she’s had to put up with, and two insane boys, 1 and 5 years old.

Long story short, we decide to drive to S.C. on Saturday (4.5 hour drive). We get there at 9 p.m. and meet my mother, her husband, and my godmother for dinner at Applebees. The Clemson game is on, everyone’s in orange, I desperately want a beer but no one else is drinking at the dinner table. Oh…and I’m also a vegetarian.

This seems to surprise a shit-ton of people, I’m not sure why, I’m guessing because I’m such an asshole they think I’ll tackle, kill, and maul any living thing that comes my way, but not so kids…it’s not so.

So the waitress doesn’t know this little tid-bit about me yet, which my step-dad loves to point out. So everyone’s ordering and it gets to my brother’s 5 year old who says, “I’ll have macaroni and cheese, and celery sticks.”

Silence.

Then the waitress looks up from her pad with a horrified look and says, “You ain’t gonna eeaaat no meeeeeat?” in the worst southern accent you could imagine. Immediately my very southern step-dad says, “wait till you get to the numbskull next to him. He eats lettuce and beats too cause he’s a vegetarian!!!”

And the amazement ensued. How could anyone live a life with no meat?!!!!

The next day, we’re on our way to the funeral - me, my brother, sister-in-law, their 2 kids, my mom, step-dad, uncle, and his two kids (teenagers). We have about an hour before we need to be at the church for the family-only graveside service. So we decide to go eat and we’re following my uncle who claims he “knows where to go” for some eats. I shit you not…we pull into a fucking McDonalds.

Wearing suits, on our way to bury a loved one, we eat our lunch at McDonald’s. On top of it…again, I’m a vegetarian…at ……Mc….Donald’s.

After arguing with the zit-faced douche on how simple it is to just NOT put the chicken on my salad and how yes, “picking it off” is not OK with me, I finally got a bowl of lettuce, two carrot skins, what looked to be the boil off a tomatoe’s ass, and dressing for the low-low price of $8.

To top the entire weekend off, I decided on the 4.5 hour drive back to Raleigh starting at 6 p.m., I’d count the number of redneck-ass cars I’d pass that have Truck Nutz. Eight…yes…eight idiots felt they needed to overcompensate for their douchebagness by purchasing a pair of rubber nuts they could hang from their rear trailer-hitch to make sure everyone driving within a 40 foot radius knew their wheels were in fact a dude.

So to recap… I love the south…I’m from the south…..southern women are incredibly hot…my wifey is a southern woman….truck nutz…..McDonald’s…..I fucking hate Snuggies…..vegetarians should never try to live in the south…..Deliverance……inbreeding……..I have an alarm on my house so don’t try to break in and kill me, I love the south, I voted for Obama!!