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Everybody hates being dumped. And there’s no worse place to be dumped than on national television.

That’s why when people go on those reality dating shows, they want to be the dater, rather than the “datee.” When you’re the dater, you’re the one who gets to dismiss, reject, humiliate and, of course, ultimately choose the contestant you mesh with the best and gallop off into the romantic sunset together.

But anyone who’s been watching television since the days of “Singled Out” and “Blind Date” knows that reality dating isn’t very romantic. In fact, it’s about as romantic as a drink spiked with roofies, a dimly lit alley and a guy you met outside U-Dog.

That’s why it’s much better to be one of the “datees” on these shows. And I would know. I was on one. For one minute.

Yesterday I was on MTV’s “Next,” the dating show where one person goes on five different dates, all the while “Next-ing” the dates that they are less than compatible with. If you live anywhere in Southern California, and have at least one slutty, easily persuadable friend, than you probably already know someone who’s been on the show. If not, you can call me your slutty friend and I promise not to be offended.

So the whole point of the show is to try to make your date last the longest; for every minute you manage to keep the dater’s interest, you get a whole dollar (think slave labor).

But being the struggling college student I am, I was all about the money. Screw love, if I manage to talk to this guy for an hour, I’m going win sixty bucks.

That’s like enough money to take someone out on a real date after the show.

So there I was, sitting in the tightly packed, cheaply decorated van/bus with four other guys, all awaiting our big date with one handsome stud. Supposedly handsome stud, that is.

If you’re into overweight cowboys from the Midwest with a huge overbite and equally out of control acne.

Unfortunately, nobody told me we were all competing for the affection of Mr. Wrong. In fact, they didn’t even tell me where we were going for our big date. That’s why I was less than excited when it was my turn and I stepped out of the bus and onto the grounds of the Los Angeles Equestrian Club.

Now I don’t know how the producers of the show knew this, but I hate horses. I absolutely hate horses. I’m really not that fond of animals in general, but I especially hate horses. They smell, they’re all big, and they suck. Needless to say, this whole horse ranch thing was totally my dream date. The cards were definitely not in my favor.

Still, I don’t take losing very well, and I was determined to win this guy over, no matter what.

But it’s hard to look cute when you’re knee-deep in horse crap. So I walked up, forced myself to grin, and got the date started by introducing myself.

“Hey, I’m Justin,” said I trying to sound like a cowboy.

“Hi, I’m Ben. ... Next!” said the cattle-sized farm boy with out hesitation.

And that’s how I got dumped by a guy from Kentucky in less than a minute.

Now I know that sounds pretty devastating, but I think Mr. Kentucky was the one who got the short end of the stick. By the end of the show, he had managed to “Next” most of the decent guys on the bus, and spent a day with a bunch of stupid horses.

He ended up looking like the bad guy for dumping me, while I bonded with the rest of the guys back at the bus. Sure, I might not have been his type (I left my overalls at home), but who needs him when the potential around you is so much more appealing?

You see, when you spend almost eight hours on couch waiting and dating, you become pretty good friends with the people you’re with.

Especially when you’re a bunch of good-looking guys getting dumped one after another by a picky horse lover.

And nothing brings people together more than a little man-hating. Not even roofies.

Think a date with Scott is worth more than a dollar? E-mail him at jscott@media.ucla.edu.