My boyfriend hates “Game of Thrones” and won’t watch it with me. I think I have to leave him. I’m literally half-joking, half-serious. Who doesn’t like “Game of Thrones”??
— GoTta have it
You can’t see me, but I’m raising my hand. I’m also flipping you off and mooning you. Hang on, I have to pee.
Now I have to hose my leg off.
Smoking a cigarette.
Sorry, I dozed off there. You were saying? Thorns? Thrones. Right. Game of.
You should leave him. I don’t know how the silly fuck a partnership would work if one half won’t humor an hour a week for six weeks a year for a fictional puffed-up fantasy television show.
(You’re a thorn in my flesh. Why can’t you take a breather from him and rub one out to the errant scenes of incest el solo?)
I tried two seasons of “Game of Thrones.” It was all right. I can see how you nerds find it entertaining. Husband read the books back when you kids were chugging mom’s jugs for sustenance, and he tried to rope me into the HBO version. Just because I didn’t waterfall gush in my skirt for the television phenomenon doesn’t mean Husband would file for Gwyneth Paltrow co-parenting papers. Two human beings in a partnership can like different things.
Besides the fact that I don’t have time for fictional bludgeoning of humanity, the show took me the entire first season, most episodes twice, to remember who the shit is who. It’s probably my undocumented ADHD, but the mess in my head tells me it was a ploy by the producers to embellish George R. R. Martin’s works of epic fantasy.
“Let’s introduce 97 characters into 43 separate plotlines and jam it into the first hour filled with a whole fuck-ton of tits, ass, blood and glorified human destruction” is what I imagine the producers pitched to … let’s call him R.R. for short.
“How much, exactly, is a fuck-ton?” R.R. said, in my head.
“Imagine this,” the producers said. “A brutally graphic porn flick filmed in a strip club with a brothel upstairs, arcade in the basement and glory holes lining the joint. We can pepper in some tasteful bukkake. Maybe some genital mutilation, dogs eating human flesh, slicing off heads, etcetera. You know the drill.”
“OK,” R.R. said, in my head, nerd-giggling, reminiscing about the days of whacking off to J.C. Penny bra catalogues in his mom’s basement.
Shut up, hatemail.
You know the answer to your own question. If you want to break up with dudetastic because he doesn’t incubate bearded dragon eggs in his asshole in the basement dungeon atop an Iron Throne replica, well, you might have to seek out R.R. Jr. to railroad you. I mean rail you. Road-rash rail you?
Now that I’m done disparaging GoT, let me get back to the narcissistic assholes, dick jokes, twisted psyches and non-PC jargon of “Seinfeld” and “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.”
And the real-life murder-porn of “Forensic Files” and “Snapped.”
Or, you know, priests raping schoolgirls in “The Keepers.”
I’m better than you.