Because I have to run out and get some things for the wife’s birthday while she’s out treating herself to one of them expensive haircuts broads are always justifying (“But look at the fine detail along the feathered edge, here, where she’s tapered it.  I mean, she used a straight razor there, for Chrissakes!”), I am just going to point you to this piece by the National Review’s John Miller,

The

Just leave those dirty dishes, honey.  Today, Jeff cleans and dries and stacks them in the      cupboard.

Chianti: “And another thing:  your 70s cinema is totally derivative of the French New Wave –”* me: “– Enough!  Man, you had best be mobbed up, is all I have to say—because otherwise, you’re about to be poured over ice into a highball glass, stuffed with cherries and orange slices, and turned into some poncy Sangria, then locked into a refrigerator with a bunch of rowdy Guinness draughts.  Which, if