RED ALERT
i feel bad for men sometimes. no matter how uber-sensitive, ultra-feminist a man can be thanks to social conditioning, i still see command center in a man’s brain as essentially believing itself to be engaged in friendly daily warfare with women, and they’re losing.
i mean, think about it.
scene – int., living room, evening.
Woman: “I’m thinking of cutting my hair – do you like it short?”
flash to Man’s brain command center:
scene – int., command room, flashy lights and LED screens everywhere, guys in ties and coffee stains on their shirts wandering about aimlessly
operator grunt [may resemble screetch]: did you hear that, guys? HEY! snap to! we were asked about the HAIR!
general mayhem ensues
commander [may resemble ed begley jr.]: where is that FILE? where is our STANDARD RESPONSE? quick, we’re faltering! she suspects misfiring in the command station! HURRY, men, DAMNIT, bring me that FILE!
rebellious field officer [may resemble bruce willis] runs over, in grease-soaked undershirt: calm down, man, it’s right here. don’t blow a gasket. cooly lights cigarette. several rooms explode in the distance.
Man: “Hey, honey, your hair looks great no matter what you do to it.”
Woman suspicious of rabid-blinking 10-seconds of hesitation, lets it slide: “Thanks. You always know what to say.”
end scene
but as all good Man brain operatives know, that’s just skirmish compared to the big guns. observe:
Woman: “Why didn’t you kiss me hello in front of your mother and why didn’t you even introduce me to your roommates?”
Man Brain Command Center -
suddenly computers are starting to spontaneously combust. telegrams from various experts and talking heads and self-help books are feeding in through the monitors, spewing bits of information onto the cluttered floor of command center.
commander: HELP! i’m bleeding profusely from the arm! what is the appropriate response here? we’ve taken a direct hit, i repeat, direct hit!
gruntling: sir, perhaps the correct answer is “because i’m afraid of letting my mother know she’s being usurped as the main woman in my life, and my roommates think i’m a pussy for settling down with one girl!”
commander: GET IT TOGETHER MAN, you want to tell her the TRUTH? GO BACK TO TRAINING, son, there’s a rule around these questions – gasps as arm falls off – always give the STANDARD RESPONSE.
gruntling passes out from shock.
commander: field op! field op! my men are dying! the mission is failing, i repeat, FAILING, can you save us? nose falls off
flash to Man/Woman exterior -
Woman: “Honey, why is your head twitching? Honey? Hello?”
back in Command Center -
bruce willis character of field op comes wading through the carnage and fritzing computer systems, yelling. things explode behind him, as always.
field op: damnit, you scum-sucking beaurocratic asshole, don’t you ever LEARN the drill? follow my lead, you vile bag of catshit, and tell the girl that your roommates are jerky neandrathals who don’t know how to treat a woman and that your mother is so excited about the girlfriend that if she sees them kissing, she’ll want to plan the entire wedding and she’ll make it all pink. SEE? it’s not HARD, motherfucker. lights cigarette as commander delivers last message and passes out from blood loss.
Ext -
Woman: “oh, honey, i’m so glad you can be honest with me. you’re right, a pink wedding run by your mother would be a disaster. and oh…. does this dress make me look fat?”
massive explosions ensue.