So you love this girl, right? You’re going to propose. It’ll be magical. Absolutely perfect. The angels will sing. She’ll collapse, sobbing into your arms (in a good way, this time). It’ll be the greatest, most memorable moment of her life and she’ll treasure it in her heart forever and always.
WRONG!
You’ll be down on one knee with four months worth of salary transmuted into an embarrassingly small, milky rock displayed on a grubby band of yellow at the end of your shaking, outstretched arm as you profess you undying love and, the whole time, she’ll be thinking about this guy!
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| “All you happiness belongs to me!” |
Not five days ago, at Sandton City, Johannesburg, his dapper fellow, whatever his name is, managed to systematically ruin proposals for everyone else, ever, with his rakishly popped collar and magical ring of dancing song-zombies. Damnit, the average Joe can barely juggle two or more television channels. How the hell are we supposed to compete with this?
The ante hasn’t simply been upped; it’s been duct-taped to a Delorian, aimed upwards and disseminated across a million light-years worth of space and time. Black-eyed aliens will be dusting pieces of your blissful, picket-fence future off their autopsy tables for weeks.
Dick.
Dick.
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