— She invited me to her house for dinner tonight. I think she wants to have sex.
— With who?
— With me.
— With you? Hang on a second. Nope. No snowballs reported in hell. No sightings of flying pigs.
— What am I gonna do?
— You don't know? Come on, Alan, you were married for 12 years.
— What does marriage have to do with sex?
— Point taken. Okay, you want some tips?
— No, no, nothing like that. I need step-by-step instructions.
— It's just for a couple of days.
— A couple of days? Jack The Ripper just kill a couple of prostitutes. It was still wrong.
— Here, put these on.
— I wore these yesterday.
— They're still extremely stylish. Put them on.
— I'd think you'd be happy for me.
— I am happy for you. You had the courage to walk over there with your pus-filled eye and fall on your ass and still got a date with one of the most beautiful women I've ever met. I'm not only happy for you, I'm proud of you. Now, I have to re-evaluate everything I thought I knew about men, women, relationships, God and the universe. But that's not your problem.
Why waste time on 10s when you're already getting rejected by sixes?
— You're overthinking this. When your dog dies, you don't make a list. You bury him, plant a shrub on top, tell the kids he's running around a farm, and move on.
— That's actually a very apt metaphor. My failed marriage is like a dead dog. But it serves as fertilizer for the shrub, which represents my new life. So if I try to revitalize the marriage... You know, digging up the dog... then I'm killing the shrub, which is me.
Let me tell you something, fellas. It doesn't matter what the calendar says, you're as old as you feel. Me, I feel... like... boiled crap.