I’ve never watched more than 30 seconds of “The Bachelor” or “The Bachelorette” series. That’s because, even though I’m old, I still have some self-respect left.

What I saw in that half-minute was just too cringe-worthy to be able to look in the mirror and feel decent about myself the next morning. The whole idea of it, on almost every level, struck me as an utter corrosion of my soul.

But considering Richmond was the setting this week, I agreed to stock up on anti-nausea medication and try to make it through a whole episode. I realize a lot of people, especially women, watch the show. Feminists, too, I was surprised to learn. There must be something about it, I thought.

I wanted to understand why a pop culture show that seems so clearly degrading to women (and human beings in general) could be so popular every season. And yeah, I know: A lot of people watch it for just these reasons. They find the manipulative, contrived stuff that bores me to be all kinds of fun.

It also seems like the kind of show that would appeal to someone who reads women’s magazine articles with titles like “Ten Ways to Please Him in Bed” or “Why Am I Still Single? An Impossible Guide To Fixing Yourself.” Shows like this equate having an attractive fantasy partner with the most meaningful fulfillment of a woman’s life. In doing so, they contribute to the myriad ways society keeps people feeling miserable about themselves and spending money like pathetic lab rats, formed more by advertising than anything real.

Honestly, I tried. But it was like watching an animal repeatedly lick its own genitalia or butthole and then want kisses — I couldn’t justify anything other than mild scientific curiosity, while holding back tiny waves of revulsion at every turn.

After watching the Richmond episode, my opinion is unchanged. In fact, the happiest thing about the whole experience was realizing I would never have to do it again and, thank holy Jesus, I will never have to spend 10 seconds of my life with any one of these whining, manipulative, idiotic and mostly sociopathic narcissists featured on the show. Honestly, I tried. But it was like watching an animal repeatedly lick its own genitalia or butthole and then want kisses — I couldn’t justify anything other than mild scientific curiosity, while holding back tiny waves of revulsion at every turn.

Why do I care about any of these people or what they think about my hometown, again? “We’re in Richmond which is the complete opposite vibe as Las Vegas,” the lead prize item, Becca, says at the beginning. Thanks for that impressive insight, B. Then you get to watch the dudes argue amongst themselves about their egg intake, or something.

The saddest, most vile part of the show was the moment when it tried to be most authentic: The handpicked Prince Charming, Jason (or was it Andy), is with Becca at Main Street Station when he pimps out a story of his grandmother suffering from Alzheimer’s, to which Becca responds with a snapshot of her own father dying. All this is done within 40 seconds in order for “an authentic moment” to be reached before the next commercial break. And you can see, if you pause the video for a slight moment, a look in each of their eyes when they MUST subconsciously realize how wrong they’ve become — if the stories are even true — in order to drive home the show’s all-encompassing myth: True love at first sight.

“Say yes to forever,” Becca — but hurry up already, we’ve got cues to hit and lots of imaginary dudes to cycle through.

This entire show is so ridiculous that it could only be popular in a diseased and dying culture. It’s the reality television version of what once were really poorly conceived romance novels (there’s even a Fabio-light this season); a soap opera train wreck that helps people get through their boring lives.

Or maybe this calculated assault on women’s tender spots provides a unique window into their social conditioning, which makes for must-see TV? Some viewers might just enjoy watching desperate men humiliate themselves, only to get “crushed” beneath high heels. I’d really have to interview fans of the show to find out, because watching it from my old man’s rocking chair didn’t help explain the phenomenon.

But all you care about is how Richmond looked, right? Okay, I guess, sort of like it was on a speed date with the most unimaginative person in town. There was beer drinking at the Veil. The same old shot of the Jefferson. Some really cheesy band playing at the Dominion Energy Center. Oh hey, and there was Gov. Ralph Northam cheapening his office by asking questions of the male contestants, these cookie-cut macho robots who most certainly are not looking for love, but rather three seconds of fame that will translate to a lifetime of sleazy bar hookups and quick Instagram ad cash as many of them spiral into drug abuse, prostitution and suicidal ideation.

But these turds asked for it. What scares me is the thought of impressionable young people out there, chewing Tide pods and swiping the latest hook-up app, who might actually consider this a desirable or sane way to meet soul mates. Who might take away that they only deserve some idiot’s idea of a fantasy courtship if they are cute enough or pleasing enough, as decided by Satanic television execs, of course. That all it takes are a few quick and meaningless sound bites to know a person.

All I can say, sweet Lord Jesus, is thank you. Thank you that I am old and popular culture no longer applies to me. Best of luck with the putrid fruits of this teeming trashpile.

While watching this episode I rocked back and forth in a cold sweat, fighting off the evil spirits and at one point, singing an old Neil Young lyric (partly to keep myself awake) that somehow seems more valuable than 100 years of tired “Bachelorette” blathering.

Love is a rose

but you better not pick it

It only grows when it’s on the vine.

A handful of thorns and

you’ll know you’ve missed it

You lose your love

when you say the word “mine”

Senior citizen is a writer and yeller at children on his lawn in Richmond. You can follow him at #kiss my ass, you social media zombies.