No one cares about your love life

In Thomas Hackett's wonderfully thoughtful and well-written Slap Happy - Pride, Prejudice, and Professional Wrestling, he presents professional wrestling as possibly the most absurd manifestation of the human male's need to posture and bang his chest in a world where he's essentially been castrated. Gone are the days of warriors battling (in earnest, anyway) in an arena to assert their masculinity. Now, we men have sports to thank for giving us license to express outdated male impulses to vanquish our foes. This same ridiculously archaic sentiment can be applied to most males' insistence on describing, in vivid detail, their sexual exploits. The whole disgusting monologue is designed to make other males jealous and, I guess, impressed with the teller's long-winded tale. Guess what? I, for one, don't give a shit. It doesn't matter to me. I would rather take a hot load in the eye than actually have to hear about someone taking a hot load in the eye.

And this obscene ritual is at its most absurd in an office environment. Especially the office in which I work. This dying institution for which I toil is perfectly constructed for male castration. Nothing we do here is worth anyone's time. It's an abattoir for penises. Yet, that doesn't stop some folks from boring everyone with their shitty sex stories. Everyone's in awe of your amazingly exciting life. Really.

"You're just jealous." Sure. I'm just jealous of some degenerate's history of women-hating ass-sex with a bunch of insecure skanks. That sounds right.

Ugh, I'm just sick of this cock-driven brinkmanship. It's enough already.

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On an unrelated note. This movie popped into my head today:


This may be the worst idea in movie history. Albert Einstein helps a young couple fall in love. What the fuck? This sounds like a level one improv group's sketch at the UCB theater. Fuck this movie. And fuck improv. And fuck Albert Einstein, while we're at it.