My lost date with 10 thousand Carrie Bradshaw wannabes
While millions of single gal pals and assorted homosexuals cluster in wait for the series finale of Sex and the City
, sadly, I do not. Instead of mobbing into a densely packed singles bar dress in garishly presumed New Yorker evening attire, seated with requisite cosmo martini and pregnant with anticipation, I am quietly nesting at home, comfortable in jammies, nursing a nasty cold with a hefty steinful of Kentucky bourbon.
Yes, it's Friday night and, yes, I am single. As a single guy in the city, this would be a perfect opportunity to throw myself into the orgiastic fray that is the post-Sex and the City maniacal hen party. You see, women will undoubtedly be whipped into a frothy frenzy by the dramatic release of Carrie and Big finally resolving their relationship
There are two possible outcomes: A) Carrie and Big get together, by which single gals will demand joyous, celebratory sex with the next available partner, or B) Carrie and Big part ways forever, thus prompting single gals to demand wanton, woman empowerment, "I don't need a man" sex with the next available penis-shaped stimulator. It's a win-win for both sexes. HBO has successfully devised a zeitgeist that will unite millions of single men and women in a climactic series climax. Millions across the nation will utter post coitus, "damn, that was a fucking great episode" before rolling over to either go to sleep, shit or shower. Future generations will come to call this historical moment the Sex and the City Baby Boom with more than a few dozen newborns being named Samantha, Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte. Just don't name any babies Big. After all, the show's not called Sex and the Stupid.