The lady is just finishing giving the other ladies a tour of her ostentatious new house, finishing with none other than her closet. It’s so nice! It’s so full! Full of all the stuff that we’re meant to believe reduces the behaviour of ladies to that of little girls: footwear that’s undoubtably been hand-stitched by nameless, faceless little Third World girls, racks of clothes that will all be replaced when the styles change next season, purses and jewelry and other assorted bric-a-brac that’s meant to complement all that other shit, et cetera.
The ladies start screaming and crying, but wait – they can’t make a proper scene the way they’d like! There’s something – another, greater noise from elsewhere in the ostentatious new house – that is interfering with their carrying-on.
It is men. Men are interfering with the ladies’ nonsense with nonsense of their own! It seems the woman has pair-bonded, and her “other half” as they are sometimes described, also has a closet in this house that is full of all that he cares about in this world. Which is beer. Heineken beer. And it is making the men scream and cry and carry on even more loudly and awfully than the women were. They are bugging their eyes and pulling on their faces, elongating and distorting them. They are doing pee-pee dances. Oh, look! LOOK!
But maybe it’s not exactly all that beer that is exciting them so. Maybe it is this walk-in beer closet’s overall aesthetics, with fog rolling around on the floor and overbright white light, the likes of which we have come to expect to find on alien spaceships. The way it makes the shelves of green Heineken bottles glow, like so many rows of cold, clinical anal probes, intended for those men and those men alone…