I know I know I know, Mad Men ended like six years ago. But there's something I've been meaning to write about but haven't been able to get to because I am literally the fattest, laziest piece of shit on the planet.
The finale was solid. It was thought-provoking. The whole Coca-Cola thing was bonks. I was obviously a littttttttttle surprised that Don ended up being a horse, but then again -- not to toot my own horn -- look who predicted that way back in 2012.
The problem with the finale was not the vague horse metaphor, but the Stan/Peggy mishegas. Not that I had a problem with them being in love. That was fine. I get it. I actually met my wife at work and used to secretly fingerbang her in the office stairwell. But with Stan and Peggy, it was how it all went down: Stan professing his love over the phone, Peggy gushing with excitement, and then Stan rushing down to kiss her on the mouth. That stuff doesn't happen. Ever. And for a show that prides itself on deep, realistic, emotional characters and storylines, they really dropped the ball here.
I'm not saying that Stan shoulda fingerblasted Peggy, I'm just saying that there's no way Peggy would've embraced that kinda move. That's not how chicks operate. What Stan did to Peggy -- sharing his deepest, most honest desires -- is called a Part One. It's called a Part One because it never works and inevitably leads to a Part Two. I know this because I once Part One'd a chick (and failed) which led to a Part Two around a year later (that obviously didn't work either). Allow me to explain.
When I was about 25 years old, there was this chick that I was really really really into. For the sake of not shaming this poor woman on the Internet, let's call her Grarf. Grarf was a friend of a friend and whenever we hung out we got on quite well. She was quick, and witty, and smart, and a whole bunch of other adjectives that people look for in a lover, and when I realized that she kinda liked me too, I decided to take our relationship to the next level (by asking for her AOL instant messenger screen name). We developed quite a rapport, chatted constantly and would occasionally even talk on the phone. We never really got into the whole "I wanna eat your butthole" dirty talk, but it was clear that we both really liked each other.
The problem was that I lived in Boston and she lived in New York and I quickly grew tired of our friendship that consisted of mostly sitting at a computer and typing stupid words onto a stupid screen. I wanted more. I wanted to see her more. I wanted to eat her butt.
So on a random Wednesday afternoon I told Grarf that I had to talk to her. Nothing too serious, just some shit I wanted to share, and I asked if we could chat that night on the phone. Grarf told me she had class and would not be home til 9:30 or 10 (keep in mind, this was at a time before cellphones when people would actually long for legit human interactions) so I told Grarf that I would call her later that night.
That evening after work I ran down to Chinatown and hopped aboard the Fung Wah bus (probably my first mistake of the evening). My plan was to get to Manhattan shortly before 10, find a pay phone near her place, call her up, throw it all out there, and then stick my tongue deep deep deep inside her butthole. As of 9:55, the plan was going perfectly. I found a pay phone directly outside her apartment building and dialed up her stupid number.
|This looks good.|
When Grarf answered we just sorta shot the shit for a bit -- I asked her how her day went, how class was, blah blah blibbity blah -- until she eventually asked me what I wanted to talk about. I told her I had a question about dry cleaning and wanted her opinion on Ming's, the dry cleaners located directly adjacent to her apartment building. She told me she didn't know what I was talking about so I asked her about a nearby parking garage and if they had good rates and if it was safe and once again she was like, "Dude what's wrong with you?" so eventually I was like, "Dude I'm outside your apartment," and she was completely blown away.
The first three minutes up in her apartment consisted of her frantically running around and trying to straighten up while repeating the phrase, "What the freak are you doing here?" Looking back, that couldn't have been a good sign. Eventually I told her to calm the freak down and tapped the seat cushion next to me gesturing for her to sit down on the couch. She sat down, she definitely sat down, but instead of joining me on the love seat, she pulled up A CHAIR and sat directly across from me. So now, as I was about to profess my love to her, she had made it very very very difficult for me to plant one on her if the moment presented itself. She was also wearing shoes, inside, like, inside her apartment, another red flag that I somehow ignored.
Anyway, I ended up going into this dumb, pre-planned speech that I had practiced on my four-hour bus ride about how much I liked her and how much I loved talking to her and er mah gerd we should totally go for it and just thinking about it now makes me want to puke. She was totally blindsided and completely overwhelmed (and flattered) and had the complete opposite reaction of Peggy.
Grarf was incapable of putting sentences together. She kept bringing up the fact that I lived in Boston she lived in New York and that I was literally the fattest, laziest piece of shit in the world. After we yapped some more, I suggested we go for a walk, and we did, a very romantic one around the United Nations. On our stroll, I probably had around 37 chances to lay one on her but I never did because as I mentioned before: literally the fattest, laziest, biggest piece of shit.
That night I ended up sleeping on my buddy Drew's couch. (Nice couch by the way.) And the next day, I got a long, well thought-out, sweet email from Grarf saying how romantic it was but she just wasn't sure and it was a really big deal and she had never had her butt eaten out and blah blah blah **violin music** **clown horn** AHOOOOOOOOGA.
A few months later I tried to take Grarf on a proper date and got us tickets to a Saturday afternoon matinee of an old Buster Keaton movie where a live organist played the musical score. It was quite nice, and Grarf and I had a great time, but she had to leave immediately afterwards because she is literally the sorriest piece of shit to ever walk this planet we call Earth.
Around a year after that, after we had cooled off quite a bit, I somehow convinced Grarf to join me on a road trip to Charleston, South Carolina (aka Part Two). After my car literally broke down on top of the Shenandoah Mountains, we had to sleep at a Days Inn in nearby Charlottesville where Grarf made it very clear, both to me and the proprietor of that fine motel, that we needed a room with TWO double beds. Later, after Grarf found a dead fly in her sheets, she still chose to sleep by herself as opposed to snuggling up with your favorite television/sports/erotic blogger. The next day, I attempted to hold her hand while we drove through North Cackalack, and as I caressed her thumb and prayed that my palms would stop sweating, she turned to me and asked, "Why are you doing this?" It was at that point that I looked for the nearest telephone pole to wrap my car around.
All in all, it ended up working out for the best. I'm happily married to a woman who hates my guts while last I heard Grarf was sad and alone and living in Florida. Since that time, two of my close friends have also Part One'd chicks, failed, and eventually Part Two'ed the same chicks. They are now both married to other women.
As far as Stan and the Peggster, I mean, Peggy freaks out about everything, so I highly highly highly doubt that she would've been cool with Stan throwing it all out there. Besides, women don't want a relationship that's nice and easy and free of turmoil. They want to always keep you guessing. They want some cat and mouse. They want to sleep with men who are not me (or Stan). If I were writing the show, I would've had Peggy become so completely flizzle-flazzled that she just couldn't deal, before letting Stan down softly the next day. Stan then would've gone out that night and looked for the dirtiest, sloppiest Puerto Rican woman he could find.
It just goes to show you that after eight years of Mad Men -- and all the awards, and all the fan fare, and all the success -- that Matthew Weiner is still in fact the ultimate weiner.
Can't say we didn't see that one coming.
Have you ever Part One'd someone? If so, share your story in the comments sectsh. Or don't who cares just check out this dog sleeping. That's what I'd do. He's a really nice dog.