The judge has ruled: Michael Rotondo has a week to leave his parents’ upstate Onondaga County home. Come noon June 1, Rotondo is a free agent.
So, ABC, you’re on the clock.
You have approximately one week to prepare the “Bachelor” estate — a not-so-modest 7,500-square-foot mansion in Agoura Hills, Calif. — for the long-haired, bearded Rotondo.
That is, if you’re ready to accept the kind of ratings that would make Donald Trump choke on his KFC three-piece.
Let me put it in plain language: If you don’t make this man your newest Bachelor, you’re missing a huge opportunity.
The unemployed 30-year-old captured America’s heart this week after his own parents sued to evict him from their home. For eight long years, he’s been living there rent-free, refusing to heed five previous eviction notices. He even turned down their $1,100 incentive to fly the nest.
Now that’s conviction.
Sure, he’s an unorthodox candidate for “The Bachelor,” whose conveyor-belt contestants all look like they played college football, dabbled in steroids and modeled underwear for the Kmart circular in the offseason. They all have perfect hair, perfectly white teeth and cool jobs.
But this father of one doesn’t check any of those boxes.
Rather, Rotondo — who sued Best Buy after they terminated him because he wouldn’t work on Saturdays — is an intoxicating mix of George Costanza and Ignatius J. Reilly.
He’s indignant, freeloading, shameless — a reality TV producer’s dream.
And, as an added bonus, he doesn’t seem to have any other commitments at the moment.
What a breath of fresh air!
Bachelor Nation might put me on a terrorist watch list for this proposal. But hear me out: This whole charade has become as formulaic as the algebra I never passed.
We meet the stud and his beautiful dimples. Then enters a parade of female hopefuls in last year’s prom dresses talking about their dreams as they freebase chardonnay. The Kmart underwear model makes out with a few of them and then makes them cry when he deports them from his reality TV fiefdom.
After narrowing the group down to a few lucky ladies, he visits the heartland homes of said hopefuls, where he’ll trick the parents into thinking he’s interested in their daughter instead of locking in a spot on next season’s “Dancing With the Stars.” The stud then takes two girls to an exotic location and makes a commercial for their tourist board while pretending to deliberate about who will get the final rose: Will he choose the blonde with the perfect boobs, or the brunette with the perfect boobs?
If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.
If I want to watch reruns, “Seinfeld” airs every night at 11.
Last season, the race-car-driver guy Arie Luyendyk had to do a nationally televised Mexican hat dance on that poor girl’s heart to keep things spicy.
The “Bachelor” folks need to shake it up — and Rotondo has already managed to captivate America.
Part prospect, part project, he’s the human embodiment of failure to launch.
I could be wrong, but I don’t think my dream Bachelor would be in it for the fame. He’d be in it to find a nice girl who has nice parents, who have a really nice house where he can live for the next eight years.
He has nothing but his heart — and a broken-down Volkswagen Passat — to offer the ladies, but that’s how we’ll know it’s truly love.
Producers probably sacrifice live chickens hoping for jaw-dropping twists like last year’s finale.
So imagine the kind of high-voltage shock they’ll get when Rotondo hands out the final rose and slips the Neil Lane ring on his lady’s delicate finger.
As he and his future Mrs. are due to walk off into the sunset, Rotondo simply refuses to leave the sprawling compound. No sir, he ain’t going anywhere. He’s going to ignore at least five eviction letters from the owner of the mansion. Then the drama really begins.
Spinoff city, sweetheart.