And the award for strangest outfit worn by a pretty girl not named Lady Gaga goes to . . .
I watch television alone specifically to avoid people who make one-liner zingers that drown out the show with laughter, but if I watched with others and was also a TV-ruining asshole, I would’ve said, “It looks like she’s in the process of jumping out of a cake.” The laughter would’ve rang out so loud and for so long that the Master of Remote Controls would be forced to pause the DVR. Then I’d announce, “And why does her pregnancy bump go all the way up to her neck?” Uproarious laughter would renew itself as I finished, “It looks like she’s having quintuplets in tiers.” As the laughter began to trail off I’d remark, “Aren’t all girls searching for a nightgown that makes their shoulders look like a linebacker’s while leaving the vagina exposed?” to a limited, polite response. Unnoticed by me I’d continue, “She looks like a gay volcano,” to no response whatsoever. After a moment of room-wide mutual awkwardness, the Master of Remote Controls would ask, “I’m going to turn the show back on now, okay?” Everyone else would quickly agree as I concluded, “And I know those titties are pregnant,” to stares and possibly even a groan. Then we’d continue watching the show and I’d never be invited back to Mad Men night. Those bastards!
My name is Ben and I don’t know who I hate more in this fake scenario, hypothetical them or me.