When Juan Pablo lay in his bed at night in the weeks prior to beginning his “journey” as the new Bachelor (they always call it that), visions of NBA cheerleaders bouncing down tropical beaches must've filled his head. In his fantasy, he is surrounded by gasping women who pine for his manhood, laugh at all his jokes, and desperately cling to him, nipples erect, as they bungee off cliffs. Perhaps he practiced several self-effacing yet sexy poses for People in front of the mirror. And Juan Pablo knows he can dance; could Dancing With The Stars be that far off?!
His fall from grace, then, must've been muy muy shitty, because The Bachelor: The Women Tell All was basically two hours of bashing every facet of his personalidad like a pinata. When it was over, the stage was littered with accusations: He's not smart, he's self-centered, he uses his daughter as a prop to avoid intimacy, he's mean, and he never intended to propose to anyone.
When he came out to face the gauntlet at the end of the show, you could see it all over his face: This is not what I expected would happen. All his life, surely, he has been the charming, handsome, athletic Latin lover who never loses. Watching it was very satisfying. I don't know what they call this sort of thing in Spanish, but the Germans have a word for it: Schadenfreude. Finally a Bachelor is fake enough that even the plastic contestants can't take it.
