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Season Six, Episode Seventeen – ‘The Cold War’

Keep having really interesting dreams about animals. The other night I was a big bear, gamely wading through a jungle, scratching my back against a tree whilst a half-naked boy was trying to find his family. Then there was me as a potato head, amidst the chaos of a talking cowboy doll, and a little spaceman contemplating suicide because he found out he didn’t have any superpowers. I feel sorry for people with no imagination, I really do.

We kicked off with Alexander’s wandering hands touching Carrie up in a restaurant. His arty friends turned up, and they all proceeded to have a good old natter about his upcoming art exhibit, which was to be his first one in six years. All I can say to that, is what kind of lazy bastard takes six years to do anything? The Beatles released about ten classic albums in that time period, ‘we’ won a world war in less time, and Jack The Ripper eliminated half of London’s petulant prostitute problems in ONE SIXTH of that time.  It’s simply not good enough.

Charlotte was showing off her new puppy, the gorgeously cute Elizabeth Taylor. The dog was prancing and wiggling through New York, mincing more than a sensational Spaghetti Bolognese, or perhaps more relevantly, more than Gay Stanford on a day where he doesn’t feel ugly and bald. Charlotte planned to enter Elizabeth Taylor in one of those dog shows. Think Crufts, but with more odious Americans whooping and cheering, like those annoying divs who shout out “GET IN THE HOLE” whenever Tiger Woods swings his golf club.

Miranda was complaining about the move to Brooklyn, bemoaning her lack of internet. Her angry stance softened somewhat when her shitty gossip magazines were delivered to the new place, instantly transporting her into a wonderful world of celebrity cellulite and top ten tips on how to have the perfect piss. Funny how loads of women proclaim themselves to be so secure, so satisfied in their lives, when all they do all day is watch shit programmes like ‘The Hills’, read ‘Heat’, sip vodka through a pink straw and swear constantly, just to justify their mundane boring lives. Do something interesting, learn to play chess, stick playing cards on your wall, or if you’re thinking really outside the box, kill yourselves.

Samantha was getting wiggy with it. By that I mean she was wearing a lot of different wigs. She was concerned when the shitty gossip rags ran a story of Smith being gay because he was snapped in a photograph with Gay Stanford. I have no idea why she would worry so much, the picture looked less like two gay men posing provocatively, and more like the Hollywood hunk Smith putting a tender arm around a terminally ill older gentleman, albeit a dying man wearing a lurid green shirt.

Despite this, she was offended by being called a ‘fag hag’, forever killing the myth that Sex And The City is a gay friendly programme. As if cancer wasn’t bad enough for her, no-one believed she was fucking Smith. To counter this, she had him fuck her in front of a camera, a filmed sex act that was casually sent to the same gossip crap that had originally called him gay. Classy. It’s weird, any other episode involving a dog bleeding from her anus and you’d think I was talking about this scene with Samantha, being brutally arse fucked by Smith, but alas it was Elizabeth Taylor getting her period. This programme is getting weird.

Very weird for Carrie. A lot was going on in her life, most notably her insecurity about her relationship with Alexander. She was concerned that they didn’t have anything in common, and that they weren’t involved enough in each others lives. An interesting dilemma. Before I met my girlfriend I honestly couldn’t have given a shit about art, drawing or stop motion animation, but now I find myself fascinated by all aspects of her life, including art as that is a big part of it. This coming from the most selfish person I know – me! It wasn’t a conscious effort for me to be interested, it just naturally occurred, and I think maybe that’s the test of a relationship. If you need to HAVE to make an effort to talk about anything, then maybe you just shouldn’t try at all.

Big ringing her up constantly didn’t help Carrie either, and nor did Alexander being rude to her friends after she brought them round to see him. To be fair, he had told her not to bother as he was especially busy with his upcoming art ‘thing’, but she ignored him and wheeled them round anyway. How horrible of her, dragging a cancer victim halfway across New York for just a cursory glance at a maverick Russian artist.

We ended with Carrie and the Russian talking properly, for the first time about his own insecurities in his own work, and how sometimes he would look at the art he had already created and think it was pony. I’m paraphrasing of course, but there was a certain beauty, an innate sense that no matter how successful you are, you might always be riddled with the self-doubt, self loathing, and self-love that comes with being one of the most talented and inspirational people of your generation. I should know, I have two gay friends.


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Season Six, Episode Sixteen – ‘Out Of The Frying Pan’

Breakfast. Despite being a huge fan of the breakfast of champions and all the pleasure and moisture that comes with it, I’m not a big breakfast man. They say it’s the most important meal of the day, but I’m unsure of that. Sure, I love a full English – sausage, bacon, fried egg, baked beans, hash browns, round of toast and a heart attack, yet I can’t fall in love with it like I can a cheese and onion sandwich, or a classic roast.

Still on Portuguese subtitles, here’s hoping this time they won’t drive me to distraction.

We started with Alexander taking Carrie all around cultural New York, finishing with a little Korean. Alas it wasn’t the red light district, or a pet shop so the true identity of Korea remained to be seen, but at least he tried. After that, he cooked her a lovely meal in her own apartment. What a kind man, and he became even kinder when he killed a rat in her apartment. Maybe that’s the taste of Korea after all.

The girls licked lollipops in Samantha’s chemo ward. Something slightly sexy about female tongues sensually sucking a sticky shaft, but not when they’re all botoxed fuckholes. Afterwards Alexander told Carrie that a friend of his had suffered breast cancer and had died. While it doesn’t sound laugh out loud funny, it was the way he said it that tickled me. The wide eyes, the dead pan expression, it was like seeing a funny Jack Dee. Honestly, his lack of tact was incredible, although Carrie’s protestations of “please don’t talk about your friend who died” screamed of nastiness.

Charlotte and Harry began to come to terms with the idea that they wouldn’t be able to conceive naturally. The acting is so fucking terrible though, the guy who plays Harry trying to look sad and contemplative reminded me more of my little nephew being caught with his fingers in the biscuit jar, or Peggy Mitchell’s frown in Eastenders. Charlotte was cheered up slightly when she fell in love with a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel dog, who was clad in a Burberry coat. I’m not a dog man, but he was incredibly cute and beautiful. For the last time though, I’m not gay.

Steve and Miranda were plotting to move house. Steve wanted to move to a lovely place in Brooklyn, whereas Miranda wanted to remain in Manhattan. Because I don’t know anything about either of those places, and because I love Steve, I’m going to pretend that Brooklyn is like Essex – regal, glacial and perfect, and like Manhattan is like everywhere else in the world – utter shit. They eventually bought the place, though after some classic Miranda moaning.

In a moment of crisis, Carrie asked if being in denial was a good thing or not. Like everything I suppose, there is a time and a place for such action. At points it almost becomes cathartic to pretend that everything is okay, that she’s not cheating, that he’s not ill, that things will work out for the best. But there does come a point when you’ve got to open yourself up and admit that sitting in a haze of delusion and denial won’t help in the grand scheme of things. Whether it’s admitting who you love, or who you hate, or what you’re scared of and what you want to accomplish. Yeah it’s easy for someone to say it and not do it yourself, but you sometimes need other people to accomplish the stuff you’re capable of before you do it yourself. Like walking through a burning building, or listening to drone music.

Samantha’s cancer storyline continued onwards here. Her hair had started coming out, becoming most apparent when she was giving oral pleasure to her life partner Smith, or as they say in Oxford and Cambridge, ‘sucking him off good and proper’. Smith’s cock drooped and wilted, which led to Samantha believing he wasn’t interested in her anymore. He was. When he returned to their place to find her in the process of shaving her hair off, he proved his desire for her, and his will to help her through her battle, by shaving his own golden locks off, and then moving onto hers.

It was a rare tender moment in this show which often has outrageously low morals and angry moments. In this murky world of decadence and greed, and everyone wanting something for themselves, it was a brave move by the writers to make Smith as loving as possible. Because he has come across as the nicest person in this show, bar none. A man who has everything, and could have the biggest ego in the world, but he doesn’t, instead choosing to be nice, warm and gracious when faced with difficulties. This show really has no role models or heroes, but he is the closest possible person for people to look up to, and try and be like.

Redemption then as the episode came to an end. Samantha discovered who she was again thanks to Smith, a razor and a rather fetching pink wig. Charlotte admitted defeat in her battle to have a child, but gained acceptance and a new dog. Miranda thought of people other than herself for a change, and moved to the utopia that is Brooklyn with the boys, and Carrie got a rat caught in her hair. All in all, an above average episode.

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Season Four, Episode Sixteen – ‘Ring A Ding Ding’

Dreams, like glass can often shatter with the slightest pressure applied. I remember once, when I was a snip of a boy aged six that I really wanted to be a grandfather. However, the cruel hands of mother time tightened around my neck like John Leslie in a sauna, and I realised that everything doesn’t happen at once. That glorious little anecdote has very little in common with Aidan leaving his apartment with Carrie for the final time – but not before fixing a broken toilet which can only be a very obvious metaphor about the dregs of their relationship floating towards the gutter.

Like a John Leslie ‘special’ surprise, Aidan also gives Carrie something to think about, as he issued her with a thirty day notice to get out the apartment he had bought for them both, unless she could muster up the necessary bunce to buy it outright. How lovely for Aidan to do that, he could have been a right bastard and just left her there literally sinking in her own shit, but no – he fixed the toilet, and he gave her thirty days. Thirty days is a huge amount of time, like Brian Clough once memorably remarked, “Rome wasn’t built in a day, but I wasn’t on that particular job.”

Everyone has problems in this episode, but like everything concerning this show they are all rather superficial. Carrie panics when she realises she has absolutely fuck all cash in the bank, whilst realising that she has spent $40,000 on shoes. On fucking shoes! Ugly wedges, ill fitting heels – and let’s be honest, probably some crocs hidden away towards the back of the cupboard. Still though, she’s still not in as much dire straits as Miranda, who is ‘swollen and gassy’, and for once she’s not talking about her pussy. A pussy which is gagging to be filled by some sort of ‘cock’ but she struggles to find someone up to the challenge of riding up that particular creek.

Carrie’s money woes hit an all time low as she went to Big and asked him for some advice. He offered to pay her the money she needed in full, but she declined. I’d like to think it was pride that stopped her from taking it, but another part of me reckons she was just playing the victim. That’s classic woman behaviour all over – ask for something, and then act outraged and disgusted when someone takes you up on the offer. Doesn’t matter if it’s sharing chips or anal penetration, everything just has to be difficult.

Another distasteful moment occurred when Carrie was again moaning about her lack of money – only this time to her friends. Miranda and Samantha both offered her the money required, but she declined those two as well. What really pissed her off though, was the fact that Charlotte didn’t offer her the money as well, but why would she be so annoyed at that? Everyone knows that friendship and money don’t mix. Even including money with anyone you know can be a mistake.

I first learnt this aged seven, when a lucky streak playing ‘Snap’ drove me to putting my beloved fifty pence piece on the line, in a winner takes all battle, with the notorious school bully Simon Huntley. So confident that I had successfully de constructed the popular card game into a technique, I arrogantly opined that not only would I relinquish the cards if I failed, I would also do Simon’s bidding for the rest of my life were I to fail. And so, twelve years on, and with Simon’s dry cleaning sitting in the foyer, and me sat down in some dirty internet cafe in Manchester reviewing episodes of Sex And The City, I think we all know that money and other people just don’t mix.

As usually happens in this ridiculous show though, things seemed to work out well in the end. After a heart to heart with Carrie, Charlotte decided to ‘loan’ her the money she needed for the house by giving her the ring Trey had surreptitiously placed on her finger when they got married. Apparently this ring cost about forty grand, which to be is a ludicrous amount for a piece of jewellery – I wouldn’t even place a bracelet around my delicate wrist if it hasn’t cost the lives of at least three little African diamond workers.

Steve and Miranda ended up fucking each other after Miranda’s earlier complaints of feeling horny whilst pregnant. Whilst I appreciate Steve was probably just doing her a favour – and giving himself a fill of sex, it still disappoints me somewhat. Miranda has been constantly horrible to Steve during this pregnancy, and still he comes back like a battered wife who has just had last nights roast dinner thrown all over her puckered face. Maybe he’s just being a nice guy and wants to make sure his little baby has a fighting chance of a good life – and to be honest, I’m not sure if I’m referring to his penis or the new child when I mention his ‘little baby’.

Either way, one of the worst twenty-seven minutes of my life, to rival the time I was once trapped inside a lift in Hackney, my first cocaine binge, and my first posh wank.

R.I.P Bobby Robson.

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Season Three, Episode Fourteen – ‘Sex And Another City’

Apparently 80% of Americans don’t own a passport, but when you consider that 56.4% of statistics are made up on the spot, how do I know what to believe?

As it is, this episode revolves around the girls going to LA because Carrie has managed to pull some strings and snaffled some tickets to a film première of some sorts. The only real pulling of anything substantial occurred when Carrie had a bikini wax, and ended up as bald as Gay Stanford. Allegedly waxing is very painful, but I can’t help feel that women – who love a good moan about anything, make it sound ten times worse than it actually is. And hey, if it really is that painful then surely it makes up for the emotional damage they inflict on men every day?

Let’s talk about Miranda anyway – surely the most annoying character in television history. I’d have everything waxed if it meant she wasn’t kicking around stinking up my television any more. You name it – legs, balls, glorious head – anything, absolutely anything. Her latest piece of idiocy happened when she caught up with an old pal of hers in LA. They had been friends in LA and she had remembered him as a cynical tubby fella, but when she saw him she saw that he had lost loads of weight and gained a sunny outlook on life. Here’s my problem:

People who consider themselves liberal usually tend to be the most small minded of people around. Cynics in general are a miserable bunch, and are always talking about how they wouldn’t like to associate with a certain type of person – those who read certain tabloid newspapers, those who wear certain items of clothing, those who don’t work etc. I appreciate that this is a bit of an extreme comparison, but is that any different to someone saying they wouldn’t want to hang around with a black person? Sure, most people are idiots, but those who don’t live their lives reading The Guardian and eating  weird vegetables aren’t likely to turn their noses up at those that do. However, the ‘liberal’ idiots who fancy themselves as open minded are much more likely to dismiss the regular folk that make this country great.

Just because someone reads The Sun (and only the sports pages) it doesn’t mean they’re any less intelligent than you! The Guardian is just a tabloid posing as a broadsheet for students and old paedos who spend their entire adult lives sat in corporate coffee shops skim-reading 1950’s beatnik novels in a desperate attempt to reclaim their former glory.

I’ve lost my point – was there ever one? I still agree with my statement above even when it turns out that this guy isn’t as happy as he made out. I can respect why people don’t like LA – but for people who live in New York it’s a bit stupid to dismiss it. I’ve never been to either, but they come across as very similar – misplaced arrogance, the obsession with looking good, and loads of crime. The difference is, people in LA tend to be more confident – lying around in the sun all day, whereas New Yorkers are all really boring and walk around art gallery’s stroking their chins whilst snorting coke off the backs of Asian dwarves.

Two quick points – I can’t stress enough how much I hate smoking, and I can’t get across just how much this programme genuinely disgusts me. I was away for the weekend, and almost began to miss it, but as soon as it starts, as soon as I see Carrie in that ballet outfit, with her nipples looking like a toddler’s finger painting, it gets me down, it really does.

This was further proved when Miranda had the sheer audacity to say “Who cares what you look like?” How could anyone be so fucking dim? The fact she then followed up that pearl of bollocks with the phrase “no self respecting New Yorker would do something like that” was enough to make me throw up my Brazil nuts. This whole show is about how you look, and where you’re looked at – there are no hidden meanings, nothing deep, nothing enlightening. It’s twenty-five minutes a week of stating the obvious. You can’t even call it escapism – because a) nothing really exciting happens, and b) it’s so miserable and repetitive you can’t feel good about yourself watching it. If you want to learn about heartbreak, read some Keats or have a danger wank – you’ll feel a lot better than this garbage. Sorry, ‘rubbish.’

Hugh Hefner made an appearance in this episode, and surprise surprise Samantha sauntered over to him and practically fellated him there and then. I’ve never really got the whole glamour model/Playboy thing. The thought of staring at some complete strangers tits and naked body is one that leaves me a little cold emotionally. If there is no emotional attachment, then what’s the point? If all you’re interested in is the baps, make yourself a bacon roll, or if you’re Jewish, a Christ Killer sandwich.

Charlotte compared her relationship with Trey to a bag. I suggest all four of the sluts in this show are like Ugg boots – ludicrously expensive, far too warm, and worn out and filthy by continual use. The only highlight of this episode I can give is a cameo from Vince Vaughan back when he was lithe and kicking. The coup de grace was Carrie ending the episode wearing a pink bumbag – I felt as knocked out as Ricky Hatton, and twice as depressed.


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Season Three, Episode Twelve – ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’

I wrote down ‘omelette’ on my notes, and I’m only including this because I don’t like going straight into a review. I prefer to let the first paragraph breathe without the confines of having to talk about the show, or me trying to compare one of them to a historical period. I mean, you could just about stretch to saying that Carrie is like Stalin – both curly haired, bushy moustached and nauseating, but that’d be ridiculous. Plus Stalin looked amazing in fur.

Miranda doesn’t look amazing in anything unfortunately, especially during a speed dating session, as she was desperately searching for someone to take to Charlotte’s wedding. Imagine the disappointment at going to one of those speed dates, and you end up with her. Just the thought of her bores me. Sometimes I wonder whether my thoughts on Miranda and my constant slagging her off is like the kid at primary school calling a girl names when he really likes her, but then I remember that I’m straight. Also, that I dislike liars, which I was reminded of when Miranda pretended she was a stewardess to liven things up. At the risk of a High Fidelity ‘top five dream jobs’ occurring, I just want you all to know that being a stewardess is currently 346th in my ideal jobs list, one below ‘Iceman.’

Speaking of top fives, a bearded Scotsman in this episode made me think of my top five Scots. How could I pick a mere five from such a disgusting, illiterate race? Maybe Begbie in ‘Trainspotting’ at a push, but isn’t Robert Carlyle from Sheffield or some northern backwater like that? I’m joking of course, I’ve got nothing against Scotland – it’s the scousers I hate. Calm down. I mentioned the Scots guy anyway, because Samantha ended up gobbling up his haggis, and I don’t think there will be any other references to her in this episode.

Carrie is torn about telling Aidan all the stuff about her and Big. Some pathetic slag piped up with a comment that Men lie about this stuff all the time!” Well, it doesn’t make it right does it? If you can’t be with someone for a month without cheating on them, then you don’t deserve a minute of anyone’s time. “Honesty is overrated,” opined Carrie. Just when you think that the rampant egotist couldn’t come out with such a stupid statement, that happens. Oh, but there’s more – “in a relationship is honesty the best policy?” she said, almost pleading with herself that what she was doing was right.

No offence to anyone who is in a relationship that has had cheating involved, be it you’ve cheated on someone, or you’re still with someone who you know has strayed away in the past, but firstly – you’re all cunts. Secondly, arguably you’re not in a relationship at all really are you? I define a relationship as a connection between two people who only care for each other in a romantic way. What the people who stay together despite all the playing away, and all the dodgy dealings have, isn’t a relationship, it’s an utter sham.

Much like Charlotte’s upcoming wedding to whoever this person is. Can’t even remember his name, Earl? Trey? She despairs when she finds out that he’s terrible in bed, when she sleeps with him for the first time, the night before the wedding. Is it really the end of the world? It could be worse anyway – he could be scouse. Although she eventually married him despite a lot of doubt, the way this show is going she’ll probably end up with a small, Jewish bald cunt who takes his clothes off all the time – thus completely challenging her preconceptions of the perfect man. Nah, what am I talking about – that’d never happen.

Every single time Carrie saw Aidan in this episode without telling him about Big, I lost a little bit more faith in the human race. I’m hardly the most moral person in the world, I mean I’d rather be famous than righteous or holy any day, but I like to think I’m above all the lies and deceit. The trouble is, by having morals, and by always striving to do the right thing (despite the bitterness) it means that even if other people are idiots, or friends are difficult, that you can’t quite get the girl you want to be exclusive with you, you just have to suck it up and hope for a better future.

Eventually though, she did tell him and his gorgeous puppy dog face was a picture, as his features crumpled into a blur of disappointment and misery. Fair play to him though, despite a few tears and a long walk he didn’t take her back, instead informing Carrie that “he needed to be alone for a while.” It was quite a sad ending to be honest, and even the sight of Gay Stanford’s shining bald head failed to make me break into a smile. If you’ll all excuse me, I’ve got a fifty nine part documentary on The Holocaust to get through, and a mini pack of Rich Tea biscuits.

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Season Three, Episode Nine – ‘Easy Come, Easy Go’

My handwriting is getting progressively more shocking, so if I say anything stupid/sexist/homophobic/ageist/racist/controversial here I’m gonna blame it on not being able to read my silky writing properly. Apparently my handwriting slants to the left, which means I’m cold, indifferent and insane. But then I’m not one of those idiots who diagnose themselves on the internet – oh, you’re bipolar because sometimes you feel upset? Or are you just a whiny attention seeking cunt?

Let’s start with Miranda then if we’re on about whiny cunts. Her and Steve are politely trying to get over the fact they have split up, even though Steve is still staying round hers whilst he looks for a place to live. Miranda still feels emotional over the break up, rationalising that women think more with the left side of their brain, inferring that they’re more emotional than men, and think more emotionally. Brilliant, as if I didn’t have enough meaningless psychological knowledge, there was some more for me to enjoy. Miranda also asked whether it’s smarter for one to use their heart or your head in a romantic situation. Heart, always. In five years time, all your head will be doing if you used that would be telling you how you should have gone for it, where, if you used your heart, at worst you’ll have a little heartbreak that’d be fun to get over.

Carrie is having Big problems again, namely that she keeps bumping into him. Carrie and Aidan meet the Big man and his missus, in a meeting eerily reminiscent of the classic Hulk Hogan vs The Ultimate Warrior bout at Wrestlemania 6 – the irresistible force, meeting the immovable object. No leg drops here though unfortunately, although we did almost find out Big’s real name before Carrie accidently spilt coffee down his trousers. I’d say you can’t make this turgid rubbish up, but some bald cunt wrote this episode and actually thought it was good. Either way, if his real name isn’t Hank or Sebastian, this has all been a massive waste of my time.

The trouble with Carrie though, is that she can’t stop thinking about Big. Interesting isn’t it, the games ex’s play. You spend so much time with someone, all those days of lovely talking, of a smooth ocean, until it can literally all disappear within the space of a week. Then the games begin – who will contact who, and when, and how – it’s all rather pathetic isn’t it, but depressingly easy to fall into such a trap.

I think I’ve written down ‘women are obnoxious’, but that could quite easily be part of my Latin classes. I was probably referring to Miranda being gutted when she found out that Steve had found another girl so soon. She made her bed, and she needs to lie in it. Alone. Sexless. Wearing flannel chequered pyjamas. Miranda wonders if she’s ‘tragic’ because she’s a successful career woman, and thirty-four and single. She’s half wrong. She’s not tragic for those things – no-one should feel embarrassed at making a success of their lives, though nor should they needlessly boast about it. No, Miranda is tragic because she ticks too many bad female stereotypes. Obnoxious? Sure. Sour? Sure. Laugh less eyes? Sure. Dungarees? Sure. I suppose that’s what you get when you get a lesbian to play a ginger. Terror.

Aidan offers to ‘strip Carries’ floors’, and I’m unsure whether that’s a euphemism or not. Samantha’s actions in this episode leave no room for a double entendres though, as she’s with someone who has ‘funky tasting spunk’, almost asparagus like. I was going to make a David Seaman gag here, cos ‘Seaman’ sounds like ‘semen’ but all I can think about is an amusing paragraph about David Seaman I read in a very entertaining sports related blog written by a modern day philosopher. I think it’s available by clicking here. The only clicks in Charlotte’s life though, was the click of a ring box being opened as she became engaged to a man who lets women dictate to him what to do with his life. I can’t believe I watch this mess sometimes, I really can’t.

Nor could I really take, or understand Carrie jumping into bed with the Big man during a chance meeting at a hotel. Real mature, really morally right for Carrie to do that wasn’t it. I’ve written before on here about how bad a role model she is for women, and this is no different. Yes, everyone makes mistakes, but how is constantly making them and then blaming them on other unmitigated factors going to help anyone? I know it’s only a show, and I know in the show they used to be together, but he’s married for gods sake! I’m no idiot liberal, but some things just aren’t right you know? At least wait until he’s out of the relationship – because if you don’t you’re as bad as him!

How can you be with someone who cheats, and who is cheating on someone with you? If they do it once, they will do it again, and again and again, and really – the character of Carrie is certainly old enough, and ugly enough to know better. If she can’t control what’s occuring between her legs, then perhaps she (and women like this) need to start doing something other than having sex and then discussing it. Sex and the City, more like fucking awful. Dreadful. I’m with Stone Cold Steve Austin – don’t trust anyone.


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