I have determined to fashion my son into a contestant for the hit ABC reality series “The Bachelor.”

My son is currently only eleven years old. This is of great concern for me, as the current record holder for the youngest Bachelor, Jesse Palmer, had already matured to the age of 25 by the time he was discovered by the Bachelor scouts at his Ottawa home. This gives me only seven years to train my son and seven years to get the State of California to pass a law requiring the Bachelor to accept teenagers (my son will peak at age 18). This will be especially tough to do because the State Legislature has had me blacklisted ever since the time I switched their cafeteria mustard with dish soap and the time I threw a brick at the President Pro Tempore.

Many of the Bachelors have either been heirs to large fortunes or former semi-professional athletes, two characteristics my son must have if he is to be given further consideration by the Bachelor scouts. I have the heir thing covered, as I have spent the past four years of my life seducing Bobby Boyardee, fourth in line to receive the Chef’s fortune. As far as the semi-professional athlete goes, I have just mailed in the first installment of my payment to send my son to bowling prep-school, though I have some concerns of whether my son’s forearms are too underdeveloped for the pastime.

My son is very furry. I hot-glued a lot of hair all over his body so that I could pass him off as a dog when I buy tickets to ride our local light rail. I also save a lot of money on groceries, as feeding a dog is much more affordable. My son gets some benefits too. He just adores it when I take him to see a baseball match on the annual “Pooches in the Park” day. But this dog life cannot last forever. I fear when the Bachelor scouts come to visit our town they might think my son is a furry. They have never selected a furry as the Bachelor so I must shave my son before the audition.

Once my son passes his audition and is on the Bachelor, he will have to be able to navigate the scene of the cocktail party as well as the group date and the one-on-one. I will coach him through all the particulars of these little games. Luckily for my dim-witted son, I have already commenced this training with his past four birthday parties. He never once questioned why I only let him invite girls, why instead of party favors I had him hand out “first impression roses,” or why I filmed a “Women Tell All” episode where all the girls from his class he didn’t invite let the world know why they hated him.

But my son still has much to learn. Metaphorically speaking, over these next few years I will teach him when to hold ‘em, when to fold ‘em, and to always stay away from Hannah Ann. She might be good for ratings, but she is a manipulative liar and should never get a rose. If my son can follow my teachings, I have faith he will make the right decision with his final rose. The show will end, he will marry Nicole, I will divorce Bobby Boyardee, and my son and I will live out the dream we have shared for so many years: former contestants on the Bachelor.

—H. Rubin