Here’s how this Aspie rolls, er, rants

My rants are almost always meant for my wife’s ears only. They almost always take place take place when we’re at home watching a movie on television. They almost always result in her saying, “You need to learn how to lighten up.”

I’ll see an actor in a period picture with perfect teeth.

“What a bunch of Hollywood idiots. They spent millions of dollars on this flick, and they couldn’t put one person on the payroll with at least trace amounts of attention to detail. This is cowboy picture set in the Old West in the 1880s, for God’s sake. Everybody and everything should be filthy. But no. Every actor looks like he just stepped out of a 30-minute shower. Every actress looks like she’s in cosmetology school. And what about every gal’s long hair that’s perfectly coiffed? Did they have shampoo back then? Did they have frizz back then? I don’t think so. But forget about dust and dirt. Look at the bad guy’s teeth, or should I say, pearls. Each one is whiter than a brand new Frigidaire. Did they have dental hygienists back then? Had floss even been invented? I don’t think so. And he’s a bad guy, for God’s sake. The man just robbed a train, shot the sheriff and kidnapped the bank president’s daughter. Clearly, he’s spent his entire life making poor decisions. Does he look like someone who would brush regularly? Does he look like somebody who would look at himself in the mirror and pick out pieces of supper that got stuck between his teeth? I don’t think so. I can’t watch another second. I’m going to change channels.”

WIFE: I was watching that.

I’ll see an actress wearing high heels.

“That right there is the biggest difference between men and women. Those things are at least two inches high and maybe three. They couldn’t possibly be comfortable. I don’t know how she is able to walk. The shoes are totally impractical. A male will never wear anything impractical. Women value fashion even if that fashion makes them wobble and fall down. Men get sprained ankles all the time on the playing field. That’s fine, even admirable. We’re not about to get a sprained ankle because we wobble when we walk. If men fall down, by God, we want it to be because somebody knocks us down. I could maybe understand if the actress is four feet tall and can’t see over a stop sign, but this person is at least 5–5. Why does she need to be a fake 5–8? I wish all women who leave the house in high heels would get together and issue a position paper that explains why they are so shod. It would be the stuff of Nobel Prizes. I can’t watch this any more. I’m going to the bathroom.”

WIFE: I missed an important clue to the mystery because you were talking.

I’ll see a beautiful woman in bed with an unattractive man.

“This is utterly ridiculous. That woman could pose for Playboy and the guy is only 35 percent better looking than me. In real life, the only way he’d get within 10 feet of her would be if they were in the same line at the DMV. Hollywood spent millions on this film and what do we get? A leading man with ears like Spock’s, and an Adam’s apple that sticks out so far he can hang his hat on it. And weak. I’ll eat his press clippings if he can bench more than 120 pounds. And little. If he was any shorter, he’d be a lawn jockey. The only place she’d pick him out would be at a police lineup. And chest hair? Don’t say I need to lighten up. The alleged stud needs to darken up. He’s sporting no more than eight sprigs tops. I can’t stand this any more. This whole night has been a poor decision. I’m going to bed.”

WIFE: Good. Maybe I can actually watch something now.