Could a young, biracial Barack Hussein Obama have known he’d grow up to inspire me to be the first black Bachelorette? No one could’ve known. Not Barack Obama, not Chris Harrison, and certainly not the latest Bachelor.
This country must return to the impassioned fervor of 2008 when we united to vote for our nation’s first black president. The Bachelor has a civil duty. He owes it to the United States to expand his sexual preferences past reserved brunettes and feisty blondes (or vice versa, it doesn’t make a difference) and see me– an empowered cocoa brown woman with Coke can curves–as a sexual object.
I’m in this competition for one person and one person alone: Lady Equality.
When the Bachelor looks into a crammed limo of funemployed 20 somethings, he’ll see a gaggle of gals ready for dry humping. Among the scores of interchangeable Ashleys and Katies and Laurens with cosmology degrees, I’ll be waiting for him to achieve racial harmony one fumbled over-the-pants handie at a time.
Together, we can degrade the institution of marriage via a televised interracial love affair born of competitive polyamory. He’ll use his rose as a bastion of civil rights progress sharing the token with me at group dates, one-on-one adventures, and midnight pegging sessions in the Fantasy Suite.
Soon it’ll be my time to parade around in a bikini at a rented Malibu mansion for America to gawk at. I don’t want to win The Bachelor, I just need to be top three.
Yet, this responsibility is not just on the Bachelor. It rests on the emotionally unstable women that unite to make me look relatable by comparison. It’s on the incessant cry-baby that I console to seem kindhearted until her mental illness becomes a liability. It’s on America’s Sweetheart who will inevitably take the bullet and get engaged to a total stranger. Together, we can work to make me a runner up and then the first black Bachelorette.
Martin had a dream. Barack had a dream. And I have a wet dream of 30 greased up meatheads clamoring for my attention.