1 minute in, a post-middle aged Christopher North is quoting Yeats to a probable teenager who's drinking from a flask in the backseat of his car.
She clutches the front row bench seat while he clutches her, providing a recital of the dead Irish poet's prophecies to a fit of drunken giggles and indifference. Mr. North, wearing the worst fake goatee I've seen since a 1970s middle school Halloween party, proceeds to slip her a very visible tongue. I feel incredibly confused and unclean.
#MeToo
Review of Chronically Metropolitan
