Sorry, ladies. I'm totally married. Have been for...uh, almost eight years. I think.
But prior to putting a ring on it (a phrase I f--king hate hearing anyone say, by the way), my wife and I have been/lived together since late 2000. Yeah, she got a look at me and thought (for a long time), I guess he'll do.
My point, is that I haven't been available this century. I hardly knew the rules back in the f--king nineties, so when it comes to relationships today, I pretty much only have two things locked down: f--k and all.
Hell, in my day, we used to talk on the phone for hours (noooo...you hang up), rent VHS tapes at Blockbuster, and maybe make-out for little while, before things got x-rated, you know? You kids? Shit. Conversations might consist of a few emoji-filled texts (is there an emoji for raging boner?), maybe twenty minutes of finding something to 'watch' something on Netflix, and then it's straight into ass-to-mouth filled three-ways.
Uh, I mean, I guess. It's not like I've thought about thisendlessly before.
How to Be Single probably isn't an accurate (or reality-based) look at single life in the Big City, but as far as movies go, it's pretty f--king textbook.
Cute Girl moves to a climate controlled New York City, basically never f--king works a minute of her life, and somehow manages to incessantly frequent cool rooftop parties and trendy bars, all in hopes of meeting Mr. or Mrs. Right (not that marriage is in the table, for f--k's sake). Lots of handsome men will cross her path, her quirky friend will have all the answers, and at the end of an hour and forty minutes, she'll learn who she truly is. And zero f--ks will be given.
Friends, this one isn't all bad, honestly, mainly because the good folks who cut previews these days don't leave anything to chance. I knew it would be stupid, I knew it would be shitty, but I also knew it would be something my wife would probably enjoy. Oh, and I also knew she would fall asleep, leaving me to finish it all by myself.
Christian Grey's boner garage (Dakota Johnson), breaking free of her sexy shackles, dumps her nine-foot tall boyfriend at the end of college, and makes the head-out-of-the-cab move to NYC. Immediately, she lands a job at a law firm, solely for the purpose of meeting Fat Amy, who apparently does nothing but f--k any man she meets. Fat Amy dispenses knowledge of life in the big city like a less attractive Pat Morita, encouraging Daniel-son to not only trim her bonzai, but to wax on and wax off every eligible bachelor in the Big Apple. Yes, friends. F--k first, ask questions later.
Which begs the question, why couldn't I have been born fifteen years later?
Or handsomer.
But prior to putting a ring on it (a phrase I f--king hate hearing anyone say, by the way), my wife and I have been/lived together since late 2000. Yeah, she got a look at me and thought (for a long time), I guess he'll do.
My point, is that I haven't been available this century. I hardly knew the rules back in the f--king nineties, so when it comes to relationships today, I pretty much only have two things locked down: f--k and all.
Hell, in my day, we used to talk on the phone for hours (noooo...you hang up), rent VHS tapes at Blockbuster, and maybe make-out for little while, before things got x-rated, you know? You kids? Shit. Conversations might consist of a few emoji-filled texts (is there an emoji for raging boner?), maybe twenty minutes of finding something to 'watch' something on Netflix, and then it's straight into ass-to-mouth filled three-ways.
Uh, I mean, I guess. It's not like I've thought about this
 |
| I've always been irritated when the names don't match the position. And yes, I'm an asshole. |
Cute Girl moves to a climate controlled New York City, basically never f--king works a minute of her life, and somehow manages to incessantly frequent cool rooftop parties and trendy bars, all in hopes of meeting Mr. or Mrs. Right (not that marriage is in the table, for f--k's sake). Lots of handsome men will cross her path, her quirky friend will have all the answers, and at the end of an hour and forty minutes, she'll learn who she truly is. And zero f--ks will be given.
Friends, this one isn't all bad, honestly, mainly because the good folks who cut previews these days don't leave anything to chance. I knew it would be stupid, I knew it would be shitty, but I also knew it would be something my wife would probably enjoy. Oh, and I also knew she would fall asleep, leaving me to finish it all by myself.
Christian Grey's boner garage (Dakota Johnson), breaking free of her sexy shackles, dumps her nine-foot tall boyfriend at the end of college, and makes the head-out-of-the-cab move to NYC. Immediately, she lands a job at a law firm, solely for the purpose of meeting Fat Amy, who apparently does nothing but f--k any man she meets. Fat Amy dispenses knowledge of life in the big city like a less attractive Pat Morita, encouraging Daniel-son to not only trim her bonzai, but to wax on and wax off every eligible bachelor in the Big Apple. Yes, friends. F--k first, ask questions later.
Which begs the question, why couldn't I have been born fifteen years later?
Or handsomer.
