Everybody hates being dumped. And there’s no worse place
to be dumped than on national television.
That’s why when people go on those reality dating shows,
they want to be the dater, rather than the “datee.”
When you’re the dater, you’re the one who gets to
dismiss, reject, humiliate and, of course, ultimately choose the
contestant you mesh with the best and gallop off into the romantic
sunset together.
But anyone who’s been watching television since the days
of “Singled Out” and “Blind Date” knows
that reality dating isn’t very romantic. In fact, it’s
about as romantic as a drink spiked with roofies, a dimly lit alley
and a guy you met outside U-Dog.
That’s why it’s much better to be one of the
“datees” on these shows. And I would know. I was on
one. For one minute.
Yesterday I was on MTV’s “Next,” the dating
show where one person goes on five different dates, all the while
“Next-ing” the dates that they are less than compatible
with. If you live anywhere in Southern California, and have at
least one slutty, easily persuadable friend, than you probably
already know someone who’s been on the show. If not, you can
call me your slutty friend and I promise not to be offended.
So the whole point of the show is to try to make your date last
the longest; for every minute you manage to keep the dater’s
interest, you get a whole dollar (think slave labor).
But being the struggling college student I am, I was all about
the money. Screw love, if I manage to talk to this guy for an hour,
I’m going win sixty bucks.
That’s like enough money to take someone out on a real
date after the show.
So there I was, sitting in the tightly packed, cheaply decorated
van/bus with four other guys, all awaiting our big date with one
handsome stud. Supposedly handsome stud, that is.
If you’re into overweight cowboys from the Midwest with a
huge overbite and equally out of control acne.
Unfortunately, nobody told me we were all competing for the
affection of Mr. Wrong. In fact, they didn’t even tell me
where we were going for our big date. That’s why I was less
than excited when it was my turn and I stepped out of the bus and
onto the grounds of the Los Angeles Equestrian Club.
Now I don’t know how the producers of the show knew this,
but I hate horses. I absolutely hate horses. I’m really not
that fond of animals in general, but I especially hate horses. They
smell, they’re all big, and they suck. Needless to say, this
whole horse ranch thing was totally my dream date. The cards were
definitely not in my favor.
Still, I don’t take losing very well, and I was determined
to win this guy over, no matter what.
But it’s hard to look cute when you’re knee-deep in
horse crap. So I walked up, forced myself to grin, and got the date
started by introducing myself.
“Hey, I’m Justin,” said I trying to sound like
a cowboy.
“Hi, I’m Ben. … Next!” said the cattle-sized
farm boy with out hesitation.
And that’s how I got dumped by a guy from Kentucky in less
than a minute.
Now I know that sounds pretty devastating, but I think Mr.
Kentucky was the one who got the short end of the stick. By the end
of the show, he had managed to “Next” most of the
decent guys on the bus, and spent a day with a bunch of stupid
horses.
He ended up looking like the bad guy for dumping me, while I
bonded with the rest of the guys back at the bus. Sure, I might not
have been his type (I left my overalls at home), but who needs him
when the potential around you is so much more appealing?
You see, when you spend almost eight hours on couch waiting and
dating, you become pretty good friends with the people you’re
with.
Especially when you’re a bunch of good-looking guys
getting dumped one after another by a picky horse lover.
And nothing brings people together more than a little
man-hating. Not even roofies.
Think a date with Scott is worth more than a dollar? E-mail
him at jscott@media.ucla.edu.