When I think of my wife,
I always think of her head.
I picture cracking her lovely skull.
Unspooling her brains.
Trying to get answers.
The primal questions of any marriage.
"What are you thinking?"
"How are you feeling?"
"What have we done to each other?"
The Irish prince graces us with his presence.
His majesty prefers not to be moistened.
I got you a present.
- I hated this game. - You loved it.
You loved it.
Thank you. I'll add it to the collection.
Can you pour me a bourbon?
What's up, jitters?
Well, if you're not going to talk,
I'm gonna have to fill the silence
with another excruciating story by Margo Dunne.
I could tell you about my recent customer service experience.
- Changing Internet service providers. - I like that one.
Or how about the time I saw that woman
who looked exactly like my friend Monica?
But it wasn't Monica. It was a total stranger.
Who was also named Monica.
- Made it kind of interesting. - It's great.
I'm just having a bad day.
- Amy? - It's our anniversary.
- Five years. - Five?
That came fast.
I'm so crazy, stupid happy.
I met a boy.
一个贴心 帅气 又酷毙的好男人
A great, sweet, gorgeous, cool-ass guy.
Excuse me, miss?
I just want you to be careful
where you put down that monk-brewed Belgian wheat beer,
because the party's down to
three beast lights and a bottle of pucker.
It might attract some desperate characters.
或许吧 那些阿米什人刚成人 疯着呢
It could. I mean, the Amish are on a rumspringa.
They already relieved me of my artisanal meat platter.
Finally, someone tells me how to pronounce that word.
对 就是"肉" 单音节
Yes, "Meat." One syllable.
Thank you. Whose beer am I about to drink?
Don't tell me.
Let's see, who's your type?
I don't see you sitting quietly
while he bloviates on his postgrad thesis about Proust.
Is that him?
Ironic hipster, so self-aware,
he makes everything a joke.
I prefer men who are funny, not "Funny."
What type are you?
Corn-fed, salt-of-the-earth Missouri guy.
Native New Yorker?
The world ends at the Hudson.
What's your name?
Well, Amy, who are you?
A, I'm an award-winning scrimshander.
B, I'm a moderately influential warlord.
C, I write personality quizzes for magazines.
Okay. Your hands are far too delicate for real scrimshaw work.
And I happen to be a charter
subscriber to Middling Warlord Weekly.
So I'd recognize you.
I'm gonna go with "C."
Who are you?
I'm the guy to save you from all this awesomeness.
So, you write for a men's magazine.
God, does that make you an expert on being a man?
不是 就是讲讲该穿什么 该喝什么
No. It's, you know, what to wear, what to drink.
How to bullshit.
Never with you.
No, I mean it.
It's hard to believe you.
I think it's your chin.
Yeah, it's quite villainous.
Okay, how's this?
A hundred percent true, no bullshit.
We all move to New York,
and we end up living in
these little cubby holes, and that's not it.
Come outside. Then, you're in it.
You have to see this.
I have to kiss you now.
Is that right?
I can't let you go through a sugar storm unkissed.
Wait a second.
There you go.
I really like you.
So, is Amy gonna do one of those anniversary,
You mean the forced march designed to prove
what an oblivious and uncaring asshole her husband is?
Life. I don't remember the point.
Deep Hasbro thoughts.
What was the clue last year she got so mad about?
"When your poor Amy has a cold,
this dessert just must be sold."
I still don't know the answer, go.
A few years ago, you'd have known.
A few years ago, it was fun.
Year one, the traditional gift was paper.
She got me a beautiful notebook.
Told me to go write my novel.
What did you get her?
- She'd never flown a kite. - Okay.
Anyway. Year four, flowers.