Is it unmasculine to admit as a man that you like the pop music of Abba? Why is it that a woman can unapologetically, without the scantest blossoming of a blush, announce her fondness for Abba, or for the pop-light likes of The Carpenters, Barry Manilow, Coldplay, and not be demeaned as a "wuss" for her soft rock fandom? What kind of rank reverse sexism is that? If a man is a "wuss" for admitting his enjoyment of Abba or the Bee Gees or whomever, then should not an Abba-loving woman likewise be labelled a "wuss"? Why the double standard? And what is a "wuss" anyway? What delineates a "wusses" pejorative definitional parameters? And does one become a "wuss" when they first admit their appreciation of Abba, or when they first come to the self-realization that they enjoy the music of Abba? Is a man anymore manly and less "wussy" if he instinctively prefers AC/DC to Abba? Black Sabbath to, say, Bread? Judas Priest to the Jonas Brothers?
I'm not sure.
These are simply some serious philosophical inquiries that can flash without warning, like existential neon signs, through a man's mind instantly, when his otherwise wonderful wife basically (ab)uses her persuasive charms and coerces him one Saturday evening after the kids have fallen asleep into watching "Mamma Mia!" under the alluring pretext that if said husband obliges his wife's 'Please, pretty please!' request, that he will be "richly rewarded later". Note that the "richly rewarded later" will be spoken by the wife with a sultry wink and subtle pout of robust red lips. Therefore, said husband would be a fool, right, not to watch "Mammia Mia!" with his arm wrapped snug around his sweet, adorable, snuggly-wuggly wife's shoulders, viewing the two-hour long chick-flick-experience as, if nothing else, a good healthy psychological exercise in "delayed gratification," and/or "impulse control". Restraint.
Don't fall for it, Guys! The only problem with this sexy fantastical scenario probably ripped straight out of some half-baked porn reel is that because the kids didn't get to sleep until 11:30pm, the wife knows damn well that the husband will be snoring within half-an-hour of "Mamma Mia's!" Dancing Queen commencement (that's a comfy couch they've got, after all) and that the wily wife, upon seeing the all-too-soon (for her) ending credits, will ever so delicately (sneakily) extract herself from beneath the slumbering (possibly slobbering) solid mass of duped manhood snoring on the couch and, with an "aw shucks, he's asleep, and yet I was so in the mood, darn" nod of the head, saunter off to the bedroom with her book. How convenient. And how, tell me how, could that husband have fallen for such a ruse!?
Remember, Fellas, wives (and girlfriends and other significant-others too) are often very crafty when it comes to getting their man to watch with them a chick-flick-musical featuring the '70s pop music sensation, Abba, so don't ever fall for their you'll-be-"richly-rewarded-after-we-watch-the-movie"-routine; no! I say, NO!, may it never be; instead, always insist that the "rich rewards" come first, never later, and then, and only then, comes the "Mamma Mia!" That's some Marriage 101 pro bono counseling for you younger dudes out there.
What's that? Am I going to review Mamma Mia? Well, excuse me, I thought I just did! And how the hell, anyway, am I supposed to review "Mamma Mia!" when it made me fall asleep, didn't get me laid, did Nothing (capital "N") for me, in fact, except cause me untold bitterness, heartache, and pain!? Oh Mamma Mia! indeed!
I'm not sure.
These are simply some serious philosophical inquiries that can flash without warning, like existential neon signs, through a man's mind instantly, when his otherwise wonderful wife basically (ab)uses her persuasive charms and coerces him one Saturday evening after the kids have fallen asleep into watching "Mamma Mia!" under the alluring pretext that if said husband obliges his wife's 'Please, pretty please!' request, that he will be "richly rewarded later". Note that the "richly rewarded later" will be spoken by the wife with a sultry wink and subtle pout of robust red lips. Therefore, said husband would be a fool, right, not to watch "Mammia Mia!" with his arm wrapped snug around his sweet, adorable, snuggly-wuggly wife's shoulders, viewing the two-hour long chick-flick-experience as, if nothing else, a good healthy psychological exercise in "delayed gratification," and/or "impulse control". Restraint.
Don't fall for it, Guys! The only problem with this sexy fantastical scenario probably ripped straight out of some half-baked porn reel is that because the kids didn't get to sleep until 11:30pm, the wife knows damn well that the husband will be snoring within half-an-hour of "Mamma Mia's!" Dancing Queen commencement (that's a comfy couch they've got, after all) and that the wily wife, upon seeing the all-too-soon (for her) ending credits, will ever so delicately (sneakily) extract herself from beneath the slumbering (possibly slobbering) solid mass of duped manhood snoring on the couch and, with an "aw shucks, he's asleep, and yet I was so in the mood, darn" nod of the head, saunter off to the bedroom with her book. How convenient. And how, tell me how, could that husband have fallen for such a ruse!?
Remember, Fellas, wives (and girlfriends and other significant-others too) are often very crafty when it comes to getting their man to watch with them a chick-flick-musical featuring the '70s pop music sensation, Abba, so don't ever fall for their you'll-be-"richly-rewarded-after-we-watch-the-movie"-routine; no! I say, NO!, may it never be; instead, always insist that the "rich rewards" come first, never later, and then, and only then, comes the "Mamma Mia!" That's some Marriage 101 pro bono counseling for you younger dudes out there.
What's that? Am I going to review Mamma Mia? Well, excuse me, I thought I just did! And how the hell, anyway, am I supposed to review "Mamma Mia!" when it made me fall asleep, didn't get me laid, did Nothing (capital "N") for me, in fact, except cause me untold bitterness, heartache, and pain!? Oh Mamma Mia! indeed!
Ha!
ReplyDeleteColdplay? Nah. See, Barry Manilow may be bland, but he's clever. Abba's so catchy that Costello steals their licks. You can dance to the Bee Gees.
But Coldplay? Bland. Self important. Not catchy. Not clever.
Oh, and four tee hees for the reviews.
Ya, but what about Bread? Is a man a wuss if he's in to Bread?
ReplyDelete