On the phone today, you go, "Oh oh oh, OK, OK. So, let's say that I am Miranda, and I go...."
I forgot whatever you said next because I was rolling on the fucking floor. Because that was so inappropriate.
I know, I know, we're not gonna have an affair, cross our hearts, but we cross more lines in a week than the Dallas Cowboys defense.
And then, an hour later, I'm at dinner with Miranda and she blurts out, apropos of nothing, "I want to fuck Don Draper from Mad Men."
I spit my cabernet.
How can you not love women like this?
I seriously do not believe my life.
And so then my wife goes, “What, don't you want to fuck Betty Draper?” She arches the eyebrow.
And I go, “Miranda, please. I don't fuck Republicans.”
And she goes, “Well, that never stopped you before.”
And I thought about saying "you cannot prove that," but resisted, which is why this divorce patter works so well.
The most serious tasks require the lightest touch.
It's those tiny accommodations.
So I go, "Well, not knowingly."
And then she spits her cabernet.
And so it goes