Ms “The Bachelor”

Susan’s love life has been marred by the knuckle-dragging greaseballs she meets on Tinder and slick-talking bum-thumbers she meets in inner city bars. Although her Leederville townhouse smells like cats and desperation, she lives in hope that all this is just a painful prelude to her inevitable fairy tale romance. For a few hours a week, she forgets about the critical shortage of shining-armour-cunts and watches the pop-cultural equivalent of a Passion Pop-fueled fingering in the back of a Playboy seated Barina.

Oh how she fawns over the smiley-headed, meal-prepping fuck that they pulled from the bowels of a regrettable gay porn set. A man with all the charms of a fat pinch test and who doesn’t mind pooning his way through some instamodels to land a sweet gig on Getaway or some other irrelevant Australian fuckery. In Susan’s mind, he is eHarmonised-gold: good looks and he believes in romance! She watches Sam's shallow display of emotion, and plunges her yearning fingers deeper into the moist cave of her own fantasy.

Susan is unclear when exactly she crossed the line from “ironic viewer” to “overly invested Bach-addict”. Perhaps it was when she joined the inexplicably angry circle-jerk over Sam’s rejection of crowd favourite Heather. She sobbed mercilessly and spilled her Lean Cuisine as she uploaded a screenshot of the TV moment and proceeded to make a fucking twat of herself, “lost so much respect for Sam!!! Seriously, how SHALLOW, Heather is the goods and any man would be LUCKY to have her#mosthatedmaninaustralia #thebachelor2015#teamheather #dude #man”.

She submerged herself in “articles” written by trash journalists that attacked Sam for being shallow. Susan almost loses her fucking shit during a phone conversation to her bestie, “seriously, the guy is a pig, who cares if she called him dude or man, does he think that this is his romance? Does he think this is about him? I fucking need this Karen, I neeeeeeeed this”. Susan has let the stiffy-driven desires of a random man make her angrier than Rolf Harris outside a cancelled Wiggles concert. This was no longer a garbage reality TV show, it was a the combined longing of a nation of disenfranchised romantics.

It's finale night, so Susan robes up and watches with a sleeve of Tim Tams. She is still livid at Sam for ditching Heather and is getting mighty sick of Andrew G not taking this show as seriously as she is. She types a Facebook update in pure hormonal confusion, “that intruder slut Lana better not win @feeling stressed”. She can barely breath as the winner is announced: Snezana! Forgiveness and joy washes through Susan and her ovaries practically pop from an overload of pre-packaged faux-mance.

She jumps back on Facebook, “faith in men restored, squeeeeeee #romance #realman#samisahunk #lovewins #marriageequality#happytogether #fairytale #princecharming”. The anti-Sam lynch mob changed its tune and they are now carrying the cunt on their figurative shoulders like an undeserving hero that society doesn’t need.

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