Look, guys, fellas, listen up; chicks seriously lie.

That’s what they do. They lie and they lie and they lie. They will tell you anything to get what they want. Don’t mistake this for an evil streak. There is an evil streak, don’t get me wrong. But it’s over there on the other side of the phrenology chart. The lying is a form of mercy. They lie to us because that’s all we men can handle.

We’re all big toddlers. We love boobs long after we’re weaned. We like running around in short pants with numbers on our shirts long after we get driver’s licenses. We don’t cry when we’re hurt, but that’s only because we’re afraid you’ll make us stop acting like a giant pre-adolescent.

So this guy’s a prince. Not in the figurative sense, although he seems a pleasant bloke. I’m referring to the fact that “Prince” would literally be on his business card, if he needed one, which he doesn’t, because he’s a prince. He’s had hot chicks slobbering all over him his whole life. Like all men, he thinks it’s because he’s wonderful. He thinks the chicks really dig him. It took a little girl in a yellow sundress to clue him in, and to show all of us how the world really works between guys and dolls: They’re only here for the popcorn, guys. The rest is conversation.