Or ethos, thinking, culture, whatever.
My wife loves this programme - largely because the unmarried plastic surgeon has replaced Alec Baldwin as her hunk du jour. I have a bit of a thing going for this bloke’s ex (the bird with the peroxide hair who had a hot lesbian thing going in a recent (for us) episode). When she tied this bloke up and smeared him with lipstick, I turned to the wife and said “Told you. She’s no bimbo, this one. Hot and bright”. Her response was a bit prosaic, I thought: “She’s just reading the script”.
Anyway, to more weighty matters than are contained in her splendid black bra. This show bears an uncanny resemblance to the Straight Dope. Last night’s episode was about transsexuals. This Hispanic chap was, I assume, half way through the change, judging from the fact that he was fairly well endowed in the boob department and had nice wavy hair. I’ve just remembered he was called Sophia, so I will now cross over myself and use the correct pronoun.
Sophia had a thing for the plastic surgeons’ assistant, who was a lesbian. Is a lesbian. In the script. Perhaps in real life. I don’t know. Whatever. After what appears to have been a one-night stand - literally, as he (oops! she) was still pre-op (or “ops”, to be more precise - I think); I say “appears” because the coupling was tastefully passed over - the assistant (the lesbian) tells Sophia that it’s never going to work because she (Sophia) is into men and she (the assistant) isn’t. Obviously, because she’s a lesbian.
They kiss and make up (no more making out) on the operating table (well, only Sophia is on the operating table), just before Sophia goes under the knife - for a scrotodectomy, if memory serves.
In the meantime, the married plastic surgeon (who looks a lot more wholesome than the unmarried one who’s left tied up on his bed until his maid arrives (“on Friday”) - God, those $300 sheets are going to be messed up by the time she arrives) is having an affair with his masseuse. She’s incredibly understanding, as well as being incredibly intelligent (and not bad looking, though not in the foxy bi chick’s class), informing him that he is married and has two children. They have a final fling before the plastic surgeon returns to his house, where he is confronted by his son, who appears to be only about ten years younger than him, and who looks like a white Michael Jackson. By an incredible twist, the father confesses to having an affair (“Dad, how can you do that to Mum” says the one who’s just been caught - by Mom - experimenting in a little threeway of his own), even though it transpires that pop and son are actually talking at cross purposes. So, Pa’s confessed to a sin that he’s not being confronted about at all!
… in the meantime, Mom (who looks like a very thin Meryl Streep - definitely doable if you’re into older women) is having constant mental sex with her personal trainer, who also happens to be studying medicine by correspondence course with wifey, who wants to be known as more than just the very thin wife of a philandering plastic surgeon.
Now, this is where things get interesting. Mom’s bitchy friend at the spa (spotting the trainer doing to Mom on the mat something which I last saw Laura Gemser do to that dishy young Euro bird in Emmanuelle II), wanders across and tells Mom that lover boy is a fake. He’s not a personal trainer; he’s a gigolo. Now that we’ve got that cleared up, Mom confronts the Englishman in her kitchen, and here’s the clever bit: he’s not really English at all! But he is from New England, so I suppose the accent is easier to do than if, say, you come from New Mexico. For those of you can’t quite put your finger on it, let me help you out. What we have here is a Tucker moment from There’s Something About Mary. (Remember, the “architect” with the English accent on walking sticks.)
He fesses up - transitions smoothly into his New Hampshire accent, and assures Mom that he’s not a gigolo (“the bitch hates you and was lying”) and that he has real feelings for Mom. Mom, to her credit, is having none of it and tells him that they must get back to their books.
Am I hooked? Probably. But the fact remains that I couldn’t help turning to my wife and saying “You know, Americans really are like this. I know. I’ve met them on the Straight Dope.”