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Posts Tagged ‘Boston Legal’

My husband has taken on a new mistress. He likes to stroke and pinch her lovingly at the breakfast table, right in front of his own wife and children.

Yes, my husband has gotten himself an internet and multimedia-enabled smartphone.

Not an iPhone, mind. An iPhone-a-like.

He says it’s called an Android and it’s better than an iPhone. Whatever. It’s a frickin’ phone. And I have never seen a man so attached to a frickin’ phone. In fact, I never thought I would see this man so attached to a frickin’ phone.

I mean, this is the man who once criticised me for checking my blog statistics during an episode of Boston Legal. In my defence, it was an episode from Season Four – the season where all the main characters contracted a bad case of the Ally McBeals and went all stupid. I think even Denny Crane’s wife would have done the same. If Denny Crane had a wife in Season Four. And that wife had a blog. And if, of course, that wife with a blog also had WiFi at home so she could check her blog stats on the computer in the loungeroom while watching Boston Legal. And if you can accept, too, that a character from the show could watch an episode of said show. And yes, this allusion has almost gotten as stupid as the fourth season of the show now so I should really just stop it here. UNLIKE THE MAKERS OF BOSTON LEGAL WHO WENT ON TO MAKE YET ANOTHER SEASON OF THE SHOW.

Anyway, so besotted is my husband with his new iPhone-a-like that he has taken to consulting it for everything – from breaking news and the latest weather, all the way to the app which tells him which foot he should next put forward when walking and that other app that advises whether he should let a fart out or not. All the while, he’s stroking that touch-screen with tender loving care…

I’m thoroughly expecting him to change its ring tone to Whitney Houston’s ‘Saving All My Love For You’ any day now.

All I can do, as a non-iPhone (or even non-iPhone-a-like) owner, is shake my head. Of course, if I did have an iPhone, I’d be swiping and pinching my own screen in a race to get the answer to whatever the question was first. That way I could show him that my iPhone shat on his iPhone-a-like from a great height. And yes, there’s apparently an iPhone app that helps you do that.

Anyway, the other day, we were driving somewhere new and we got a bit lost. Rather than pick up the street directory near his feet, my husband whipped out his Electronic Mistress and fired up google maps. The ensuing conversation went something like this:

NDM: So do I turn left or right here?

HUSBAND: Hang on… Just checking… Whoops, didn’t mean to do that.

NDM: The lights are going to change any moment. I’m going to have to make a decision. Left or right?

HUSBAND: (pinching and stroking and swooshing the crap out of his phone) Um… oh, shit…

NDM: LEFT! OR! RIGHT!

HUSBAND: Uh…

NDM: Okay, the lights have changed and I’m going to turn right. I’m turning right! TURNING! RIGHT! There. I’ve turned right. What’s your little girlfriend got to say about that?

HUSBAND: Oh… er… that you should have turned left?

Now I understand why most men keep their mistresses a secret from their wives. It’s because the wife might be tempted to throw the mistress out the window of a moving vehicle while doing a U-turn in heavy traffic to correct a mistake that MIGHT HAVE BEEN AVOIDED had the mistress been stroked and swooshed correctly by the so-called husband. I mean, if the man is going to keep us both, he’s going to have to treat us right. Sheesh.

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Whoever invented the idea of TV series on DVD must have been a parent of small children. My husband and I have long since liberated ourselves from the fickle scheduling of the commercial networks and from the tyranny of little feet in the hallway that force us to mute the TV and miss a vital plot point.

For a long time it was The West Wing. I can’t say we remained untouched: we did a lot of walking and fast-talking and developed a tendency to suddenly launch into inspiring speeches making mention of Our Noble Forefathers and The Roots of Democracy.

Then we had a few series of Boston Legal (cue: lengthy ethical discussions, cigars and whisky on the balcony) and 30 Rock (I became smart, sassy and Tina Fey-esque and my husband wanted to wear an NBC Page’s uniform). 

And then finally, seven shameful years after it was first released, we discovered The Wire, which I honestly believe is some of the best television ever made – Dora The Explorer’s Pirate Adventure aside, of course, which can make grown men weep and go to war.

Of course, knowing there were only five series of The Wire and wanting it to last forever and ever and ever, I told my husband that we might have to eke it out a bit by mixing it up with Series 4 of Boston Legal. However, switching between the two, has resulted in this “series soup” in my mind which I call “Baltimore Legal”. For example:

SPADER: What the fuck’s up with that shit, Denny?

SHATNER: Oh, I’m just a humble motherfucker with a big-ass dick, Alan. 

And yes, this should give you some indication of how much effin’ and blindin’ there’s been in our household since we’ve been watching The Wire. Honestly, if the Australian Communications and Media Authority caught wind of it, they’d slap a “Contains Strong Language” warning sticker stuck on our front door (next to the black cross to indicate that the Gastro Plague lies within).  

CUT TO: our recent winter holiday (now known as “Spew Break” – thanks, KC), where I found myself being woken up the first night by the water pump turning itself on and off almost every minute. In the quiet country air, it was so loud that it sounded like a gun going off. And in my sleep-deprived state, it was like I was lying in bed in the low-rises of West Baltimore, staring up at the decaying foam mattress of the bunk above, with words like “water-pump torture” and “fuckin’ fucker mother water pump fucker” swarming through my head.

The next morning, my husband’s explanation about why the water pump would make such a noise so frequently went something like “The water pump… blah blah blah… syphon drawing up water blah blah blah… virtually undetectable water leak…blah blah blah… pressure switch ” but all I could think was “I’m gonna light that ass-sucker up like a mother fuckin’ Christmas Tree”. 

And sure enough, come Night Two, I sent my husband outside to take that mo’ fo’ pump down.  Of course, if we had only been watching Boston Legal, I might have felt compelled to give an impassioned plea on its behalf (e.g. “it was only doing its job” and “if we take down every water pump that makes a noise, then we may as well say goodbye to civilisation as we know it”.)

But no, we were channeling The Wire and that night, the pump was silenced for ever more (well, at least until morning). I think I even heard my husband mutter “It’s all in the game, yo” as he did it.

Because it is. All in the Game. Yo.

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The NDM wishes to advise readers that she and her husband still have three and a half series of “The Wire” remaining and that the ACMA’s Strong Language warning will uphold for the duration. After that, she’s planning to detox with the BBC’s “Pride and Prejudice”, starring Colin-Fucking-Firth. 

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