The females liked it 'cause it had Limoge, foreign accents, and a steamy jungle romance between romanticized white people.
So Sunday I get roped into this chic flick on the tube; Mrs. Locomotivebreath, that curvaceous, raven-haired beauty whom I'd marry all over again, simply asked for my company. How could I resist?
Soft lights, popcorn, cool drink, and thee. Perfect.
A ten-years-younger Jennifer Aniston? In heels. And skirt. Curvaceous. I'll watch.
But not long into this chic flick, the ringing sound of some good advice (for any young man), I received years ago from a Bro, pops into my head. "No matter how cute she is someone, somewhere, is tired of her crap."
The Cliffs Notes plot runs like this: Single gal wants man (for whatever reason); single gal deceives man (for whatever reason); single gal does nasty with another man(for whatever reason - but tis ok cause she really wanted 1st man); single gal cries; 1st man she really wanted falls for her (for whatever reason). It's true love! The end.
Now, I'm no social scientist, but methinks this explains why daytime television is such a wasteland: How to jerk people around, lie to their face, monkey stomp their emotions and look good doing it because these horn dogs deserve no better.
It's almost better than chocolate, these fuster cluck emote-athons & two hanky maudlin blabber fests. And far too many dooods suffering from teh ghey. Hey. That's entertainment!
Seriously? That's what holds chics attention?
Hollyweird & TV suits bank on it. So tell me again why the nineteenth amendment was a good idea??
Just kidding, honey.
Fortunately, Mrs. Locomotivebreath is a low maintenance woman with only an occasional ride on the female emotional roller coaster. So, I indulged her. And I love to indulge that woman.
It's all good, though. Blazing Saddles is on next Sunday. And no chic flicks.