This past weekend, Sex and the City opened in theaters in America, dragging the lonely, jilted, sex-starved women of America from their homes and bars and into the theaters, martinis in hand and rejection in their hearts. $55.7 million was collected from this sham of a production, beating the shit out of Iron Man and Indiana Jones in a tragic bitchwhipping of masculine pride.

What these women don't realize is how ridiculously fucking stupid they look stumbling drunk all over the place, going to watch a movie based chiefly on how the main characters are shallow, man-using whores who obsess about shoes. Their idol looks like a horse with a blonde wig, their battle-cry is "I will wear whatever and blow whomever I want as long as I can breathe and kneel," (actual quote from the series) and their ultimate enemy is men - even though they seem to be unable to function without being attached to one at the crotch.

Is this the modern woman? Is it really surprising to them that spending their time fucking every man they meet, destroying all their relationships by being unstable, unreasonable and fucking downright CRAZY, and drinking their cute little funny-shaped colourful drinks is ruining their lives and leaving them as resentful shrews?

Ladies. I don't care if it's a pink bottle or a brown one, a triangular glass or a beer mug, a gay little appletini or a shitty on-tap beer, excessive drinking is excessive drinking. Your liver doesn't hate men, and it will not thank you. Drag your cocktail dresses and stiletto heels out of the back of that strange man's car, eat a big sandwich, and get some fucking help.

Jesus.

At a theater which will go anonymously named, a drunken female patron tumbled down a flight of stairs and injured herself the opening night of S&TC. Similarly, at least one drunken female patron bared her breasts to the lobby. An usher, who also wishes to remain anonymous, states that before leaving at the end of her shift, she performed a bathroom check on the women's restroom. There she heard sounds of vomiting; shortly afterwards she discovered the afflicted woman standing before an automatic motion-activated paper towel dispenser, waving her hand absently before it.

"Are you okay? Is it stuck?"

A blank, handbag-frazzled gaze was returned. "Yeah. Sorry. It's stuck. Sorry. It's stuck. Stuck."

"...Okay."

After fixing the jammed dispenser, the usher received further praise.

"Thanks. It was stuck. Stuck. It was... stuck. Thanks. It was stuck."

I think we get it, lady. Go back to your sexist propaganda movie. We'll wait here.

Somehow my idea of a night at the movies doesn't begin with a greeting of "Hi, my name is Polly, and I'll be dragging your blue, bloated corpse out of the theater this evening."

Enjoy the show.