All Signs Point to Rachael

“I’m gonna need prayers and 13% alcohol by volume to get through this episode tonight.” – an already agitated My Daughter Diandra (MDD) about five hours before airtime.

Her worst fears were realized as this week’s episode started off brutally dark, awkward and uncomfortable with Matt confronting his father over his absence during his childhood. It was not entertaining, informative or edifying in any way. Whose idea was this? It cast a pall over the show that it never recovered from.

And we don’t need spoilers from Reality Steve to see who’s going to get the Final Rose. The key elements in each date said it all.

Michelle. Butter.

Bri. A ramshackle tent. And smores.

Rachael. Fireworks.

You’re still not sure yet? Seriously? OK, more evidence.

  • Michelle leaves Fantasy Suite. Matt calls her name and blows her a kiss.
  • Bri leaves Fantasy Suite. No callback.
  • Rachael. Did I mention that she got fireworks?

Still not convinced? How many times do I have to close this case?

  • Michelle drops the L-word. Matt does not reciprocate.
  • Bri drops the L-word. Matt does not reciprocate.
  • Rachael drops the L-word. Matt reciprocates!

As if you needed any more icing on this cake, the Evil Genius Producers played up Rachael’s “my boyfriend may be going zoom-a-zoom-zoom-zoom and a poom-poom with two other girls” anxiety by saving her for the last Fantasy Suite date. And when Matt picked Michelle first at the Rose Ceremony, leaving him the choice of either Bri or Rachael, Racheal’s look of fear could be felt through the screen although it was obvious Matt was choosing her. Of course, all the off-show drama involving her turned that moment into less sympathy than what the producers intended.

Finally, I need to address Michelle and Matt’s Pennsylvania Dutch Spa Day. That’s just not a thing in Western Pennsylvania. Let’s just ignore the fact that Nemacolin is a smooth 225 miles from Amish Country.

And the Amish aren’t exactly known for their sensuality. We have gone from bad to bizarre.

Get thee behind me Satan!

This wretched season thankfully has only one week to go.

P.S. Unlike MDD, I went wineless.

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