Him: I got nothing today.
Me: You’re striking in solidarity with the actors and Hollywood writers, aren’t you?
Him: Yes. Consider me on vacation.
Me: Do let me know if you find anything interesting in the picket line.
Him: We’re discussing the patriarchal system that allows certain executives to make more than $50 million a year while too many actors make about $40 a day.
Me: Are you making that up?
Him: I am not. Just like I’m not making up that we are going to gate crash a certain executive’s party and have a threesome in his McLaren.
Me: Not sure how that’s changing the system.
Him: It’s with his twin, twenty-four year-old daughters that he wants to marry off to other studio executives. It’s their idea. They want revenge. I’m a man of service, what can I say?
Me: Is this a Hollywood studio mafia romance you’re starting?
Him: No, the mafia show up later. The head of the family–a woman–is in love with me. So she gets jealous and–
Me: My head hurts. Go back to the picket line.
Him: Too late. I’m already in the McLaren.
Me: Okay, maybe I’ll stick around. Solidarity and all that.