Sex and the City

Slothrop: You sad, deplorable beasts. You want Slothrop to write about the turgid cliches, the predictable bathos and airbrushed version of NYC and Mehheco. About how there was not a single second of anything true in a movie two and a half hours long. About how, if Hemingway had watched this, he wouldn't have needed the double barreled rifle. But that's because you don't understand pretty dresses. Nor do you care for large apartments and closets the size of Kazakhstan. You see ruffles and truffles and you look dumb. Watching barbie dolls converse on their cellphones leaves you feeling inadequate and technologically stupid. You speak of a woman's heavenly secret place as though it were a canal that needs drilling. You're poor and take public transportation and don't understand the genius of taking a horse and carriage through central park to go to a diamond auction. You most likely have never contemplated the deep intricate and complex nature of love making. Coitus, you would call it. Purses, and puppies, gay wedding planners and cute five year old Chinese girls (who hide cellphones in the most inopportune moments) mean nothing to you. You don't like sophisticated women of class, you flaming incorrigible poofters, and you want to soil Slothrop with your abominable buggery. Our dedicated readers will know, of course, that Slothrop is sensitive and loves shoes very, very much. A stunning achievement, this.

Also: the word "cute" probably terrifies you, you... pussies.

Koko: That, and not shoes, is what you find in your Kazakhstanian closet: a wilted Fabio-Frankensteiner, courtesy of the frontispiece to Mary Shelley's ill-edited and substantially fucked-uperish 1831 edition. Also courtesy of Miss Mary is my rejoinder:

Big ugly monster (you): "The picture I present to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the wantonness of power and cruelty."

Smart scientist (me): ". . . This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent."

Also, everything you say is true, which is why you are wrong. If I ever did understand a pretty dress I would set myself adrift in the Arctic wastes like that South America-living, Cicero-speaking corpse conglomeration.

And the wirewalker is German, right? He must be German.