Lately, I’ve been so nice you have to wonder who programmed me in Stepford. Maybe it’s because the Bride is a Mrs., Angelic is in love, and I’m back at work. Maybe it’s because the only real complaint I have lately is that cute shoes sometimes hurt your feet. But can I please be bitchy for a moment?
Why is it that men, perfectly intelligent and well-intentioned men, sometimes like Barbie dolls? Sure they may be triathlon running Barbie dolls who donate money to charity but they’re still Barbie dolls. I know who Keith Haring is, for Pete’s sake. And that’s counter-balanced by the fact that I know what it means to go to the mattresses and who says “I’ll be your Huckleberry.” I suck at volleyball but I can name most tunes from the 1950s to mid 1990s.  I probably know more about the X-Men than most men. I can pray the rosary in two languages. I know at least 50 ways to bake a chicken. I know all the lyrics to most disco songs.
But you know what Greg Behrendt says, “Don’t waste the pretty!”

Triathlons. You try dealing with a manic supply clerk with twelve feet of carpeting and an Exacto knife. Now that’s kick ass.

I feel better already.

We return to the show in progress.