Permission Granted

Last night, the options were a bit limited.   One can only sit around the parlor with one's better half, sipping sherry and conversing in French, Italian, or Gaelic, for so long before a sense of ho-hum sets in.  Last night, we tired of the pithy.  We changed locations in the mansion.   Moved swiftly from the front parlor to the home entertainment center.  The plush velvet seats, the free popcorn, the surround sound.  "What shall we watch tonight, my love?" I asked, searching through our alphabetized DVD collection.  "'The Best of Masterpiece Theater?' Or would you prefer 'Long Day's Journey Into Night?'"  Hubby yawned.  Never a good sign.  "Perhaps something on the telly?" I said.  "Perhaps," he said.  A moment later, we arrived at our decision.  "Salt," starring that gal with the big lips.  Angelina something. Oh, we felt so good about our selection, we invited the college boy to join us.  He lasted all of ten minutes before declaring, "This movie is sh*t," and heading upstairs to write rap lyrics.  He was right, of course, but we refused to admit it till half-way through, when things turned ridiculous.  I started in with the commentary.  "Permission to kick your ass!"  "She's a Russian spy.  She's a CIA agent.  And she's pissed off."  It was terrible.  The worst.  And we enjoyed every minute of nonsense.  What could be more fun than watching AJ kick butt, over and over, for an hour and a half?  If you think of something, please share.  I need options for tonight.