You know what weirds me out? When a man posts a review on behalf of his wife on a shopping website.

I was looking for a pair of sensible, non-spike-adorned black pumps on Zappos, and came across the following review:

My wife cannot go anyplace wearing theses shoes without getting five compliments. They add a fun flair to a business or professional attire.

Um, okay. Thanks for the feedback, man. Now go find your testicles and reattach them.

North to drop off, asshole.

I still can’t believe this happened.

I was sitting in car line on Friday afternoon, innocently checking my texts, and as a result, a small space opened up between my car and the one in front of me. About three car lengths, give or take. And about thirty cars back from the point where you actually get your child.

And another mother drove around me. Thereby cutting me in line.

Two days later, and I’m still reeling.

It’s not exactly a large school. I sort of know everyone, at least by sight. And since, once she cut the line, I pulled my head out of my ass and moved forward, I got a clear view of the bitch, and now know exactly who she is.

(By the way? Total bimbo. She even has a bimbo name, although that’s probably not her fault. Unless, she was once a stripper and changed it. Which would actually make sense on a lot of levels.)

It’s not like I’m a stranger to school car line road rage. And yes, I do get annoyed by spacey chicks who are more focused on their phones than on progressing forward. I think we’ve all been there. I’ve sat there, stewing, and contemplating a toot of the horn to get things moving, but have thus far resisted.

But to actually cut in line?

It’s unheard of.

It’s an asshole move.

Clearly, she should be punished and shunned.

I went to a cocktail party that night, and lost no time telling everyone who would listen about this. There were a few (gratifying) gasps of horror, and one outright denial.

“I know her, and she would never have done such a thing,” a friend said.

Huh.

Would and did, baby. Would and did.

I don’t want to give away any spoilers, but I took Sam to see the movie Chimpanzee this past weekend, and . . .

. . . it was all about chimpanzees.

Brilliant titling.

Just so you know, chimpanzees don’t do a whole hell of lot, other than eat things and pick bugs off each other.

But here’s something startling I did learn from the movie:

Chimpanzees eat monkeys.

That’s right. They hunt down cute little monkeys and rip them limb-from-limb, and then eat them raw.

Yeah. It freaked the shit out of me, too. It was sort of like watching a Chimpanzee version of the Hunger Games.

Six episodes in to the fifth season of Mad Men, and the fans are getting restless.

Just read the comments following Adam B. Vary’s recap of the latest episode for Entertainment Weekly. The polarizing figure? Don’s new wife, Megan, played by the luminous Jessica Paré.

In one camp, you have the Megan fans. They like her. They like Don with her. And, most of all, they like that Megan is the anti-Betty, Don’s cold, brittle ex-wife.

In the other camp — the camp where I have pitched my tent — are the fans who are tired of the Megan-centric story arc of the fifth season.

For one thing, Megan is just too perfect. She’s smart, bubbly, thin, beautiful, fashionable and kind to her stepchildren. She’s a natural whiz at advertizing. She can sing Zou Bisou Bisou and dance around without looking overly foolish. She cleans the apartment in her underwear. Even Peggy can’t help but like her. Megan is, in short, a character without flaws. Oh, sure, every once in awhile, her temper flares up, but always in a pouty, sexy, very French sort of way.

All of this doesn’t make for a very interesting character, and especially not one to build an entire season around.

Still, that’s not my main problem with the Megan plot. As Vary summarizes:

So Megan saved the day. First, she expertly tipped off Don, whispering in his ear back at the table, “We’re getting fired.” When Heinz Guy made it clear he was done for the night, Don pleaded that a round of Sauterns would spare him from a night with the in-laws. Again, Megan leapt at the opportunity, teeing up Don sell her pitch as if it was his idea — which Don took a long, painful moment to recognize. But then he ran with it, putting on that old Don Draper salesmanship magic we’d been missing all season. Heinz guy sparked to the idea — maybe the mother and son could be played by the same actors? “We hadn’t thought of that, but that might work.” Some added pressure from Kenny, and the Sauterns became Champagne. “It’s the future,” sighed Heinz Guy. “It’s all I ever wanted.” (Somewhere, Conrad Hilton was barking to no one in particular, “Tell me about it!”)

In the cab back home, Don was on fire. “You’re good at all of it,” he cooed at Megan.

And that’s it, right there: Don cooed.

The Don Draper we have gotten to know over the past four seasons would never coo. He smirks. He scolds. He seduces. When faced with any sort of strong emotion, particularly from the women in his life, he’s blankly confused. He’s the golden boy with the dark, twisted past. And, let’s face it — he was always a pretty shitty parent. Remember the time he got so hammered, he forgot to bring home a cake for Sally’s birthday party?

But all of a sudden, with the addition of a hot, younger wife, we’re supposed to believe that his character has completely transformed. This new Don is attentive, faithful, open and respectful. He suddenly seems to enjoy his children, and fantasizes about having another. He lectures Pete Campbell on the importance of remaining faithful to his wife.

And what exactly has changed? Yes, he has a new wife, but . . . so what? Is Megan so perfect, just her presence in his life turns Don into an entirely different character?

The transformative power of love is a classic, and often interesting storyline. But for it to succeed, the audience has to buy the transformation. And, at this still-early-point in the season, I’m not buying it.

Thank God for Roger Sterling. He’s the saving grace of the show. I’ll keep watching just to hear him call little Sally a mean drunk or witness his delight at Lane and Pete coming to fisticuffs.

This could be the result of having watched too many episodes of Dexter, but whenever I see a windowless unmarked white van, I immediately think: Kill van.

Who, other than a serial killer, needs an unmarked van? If you’re an electrician or a plumber, you’d have the name of your business painted on the side. And, as potential killers should know from twenty years of Law & Order episodes, it’s not a good idea to advertise where you work when you’re in the middle of snatching someone off the street.

The lack of side windows makes it even scarier. I won’t even park next to a windowless van, just in case a sociopath is waiting inside, ready to leap out with a syringe.

But — unless I’m alone in this neurosis, which is possible — shouldn’t this start to affect what serial killers drive? Wouldn’t they have figured out by now that they’ll be more likely to draw attention to themselves driving around in a vehicle which causes everyone to think, Oh, look, there’s a kill van. Maybe serial killers will switch to driving grey Honda minivans or Ford Fusions, which supposedly come equipped with a generous trunk space, always useful for stuffing bodies into.

I wonder if the F.B.I. has thought of any of this. They really should hire me as a consultant.

Apparently, there’s a new BRIDGET JONES movie in the works. And it’s not going well.

I’m not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, the first movie was okay. Not as good as the book, certainly, but entertaining enough. On the other hand, the second movie was so incredibly bad, there was an entire episode of THE OFFICE dedicated to mocking it.

So, what’s going to happen? Bridget has a baby, and then . . . what exactly? She sits around in sweat pants for six months six years, negotiating breast feeding mishaps, misplaced pacifiers and hormonal fluctuations? Hopefully, there will be more to it than that.

What is it with Hollywood and babies anyway? Suddenly, babies are being almost fetishized in the entertainment media. Every time I pick up a trashy magazine, hoping to see who looks like crap in a bathing suit, there’s another sappy story about some third-rate actress announcing her pregnancy. God help us when Princess Kate gets knocked up; the Internet may implode.

They have even turned the pregnancy manual WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOU’RE EXPECTING into a movie. The trailer ran before THE HUNGER GAMES, and it looks so . . . so . . . well, so incredibly godawful, it’s hard to put it into words.

Yes. I wish I could unsee it, too.