So the other night, my wife’s watching Sleeping with the Enemy for the jillionth time. It’s one of her “guilty pleasure movies” that she has to watch every single time the freaking thing is on. I swear, even if that shit is in Spanish, she will stop and watch it. Of course, she makes me watch it with her. You know, we have to spend “quality time” together. Jesus. Luckily there were no sharp objects handy, or your boy Hank here may have been forced to stab out his eyes. And then she insists on holding my hand the whole time! That’s fine, but does she have to squeeze the hell out of it every time that “bastard” husband appears on screen?
After sitting through most of that fine example of total crap, I gotta nitpick about something — well, about a lot of things. But let’s focus today on this new tool boyfriend she gets. The showtune-singing drama teacher with the full beard. I don’t want to say that he’s maybe not so into girls, but… well, Julia Roberts there might want to keep an eye on him.
Anyway, he takes her on a date… to the theater. Not to see a play, no. That’d make sense, and God forbid the dickweed make that mistake. It’s the empty theater he works at. Gee, thanks buddy. Then they try on every costume in the best stocked college drama department ever. Apparently all the school’s funding goes to making sure that costume closet is ready to go should they ever need to have an impromptu clown act or reenact that pervy scene from Eyes Wide Shut. Then, the weenie takes her on stage, which conveniently has a swing as its only set dressing. It’s like they knew he was coming! And then… the dipshit makes it snow! What the hell play are they putting on here? And did they cut out the scene where those poor schmuck undergrads show up the next morning and have to sweep up fake snow for hours?
Movies are full of dates you’ll never see in real life. No one has ever snuck after hours into the planetarium they volunteer at to show their girlfriend the stars. Take her out to a field numbnuts! I think the ladies prefer actual stars to twinkle lights. Just a guess there. And no one flies their gorgeous hooker girlfriend to the opera for one night or plays a spirited game of paintball and then collapses into a nearby pile of hay and literally rolls around in it.
I took my wife paint-balling once, and she could not have hated it more. She plastered my special part of the male anatomy with so many paint pellets, I’m surprised I didn’t end up pissing rainbows. Thank God I know her as well as I do, and had thought to wear a cup.Read More