I would like to announced that Bravo has picked up the option for my own reality TV show, American Author. In the highly-original format, twenty-five hopeful young novelists write a chapter every week, with exponential eliminations by a panel consisting of myself, former New Yorker books editor Bill Buford, and Paula Abdul. Our final two contestants will complete their novels as the nation watches. The winner gets their novel published. The loser has to move in with Jonathan Safran Foer.

This information comes not out of a self-publicizing impulse, but rather as part of an ongoing discussion as to why "The Bachelor" has so entranced America. Today, both The Washington Post and The New York Times attempt to answer that question in a high-handed manner? But to me, the show's unique appeal comes down to this: Who among us haven't dreamt of being made love to in a cheesy pre-fab Aspen condo by an intellectually-stunted, socially-coddled mama's boy?

Initially, when the show's producers rejected my videotape, saying I was "too handsome" and "too perceptive" and, "quite frankly, too dangerous," to be The Bachelor, I balked. But then I realized their judgment was sound. For I have never sought a wife. I was just looking for some hot tang, and for clues to help me navigate the current L.A. pickup scene. The Bachelor they DID choose, Aaron McGillicuddy, is perfect. We need semi-sincere guys like him, because then playas like me and Nelly can swoop in after him and sniff out the wet panties.

So no matter who Aaron picks tonight in the most shocking rose ceremony yet, whether it be Lana, the dark-haired beauty with a mysterious past, or Chloe, the spunky blond newspaper editor, I'll be satisfied. For the show has provided a needed respite from the news. We need mindless sexist diversion right now, particularly with Osama bin Laden's return. I bet Nancy Pelosi thinks Osama would make a perfect Bachelor. Don't you?

Posted by at 2:50 PM | Permalink