Chris Martin had to give up a lot during his marriage to Gwyneth Paltrow. His dignity, warmth and affection, the ability to use normal products like Johnson&Johnson soap and tap water. But one of the hardest parts had to probably be the fact that Goopy banned him from ever eating any meat. Tofurkeys are cruel and unusual punishment.
Now that the two have decided to “consciously uncouple” themselves, Martin has gotten back together with his old flame, meat. And he couldn’t be happier. Not only because it’s freaking delicious, but because he can publicly give Gwyneth the finger without looking like a douche.
Poor Chris Martin never stood a chance. Obviously, if the guy had spent 5 minutes alone in a room with either Brad Pitt or Ben Affleck, he could have potentially saved himself a decade of headaches. Of course, then we also wouldn’t have had the pleasure of watching a bunch of dumbass commoners name their kids after fruits and vegetables in order to feel hip and hoity, so silver linings I guess.
There seem to be a lot of rules and weird “quirks” in Gwyneth Paltrow’s life that she forces upon those around her. Most of them don’t make any fucking sense, because maybe I am just not deep enough to speak Aqua-leese and understand my water’s feelings. One of the shitty things Gwyneth forced upon Chris during their marriage was the banning of meat in their house. Poor guy had to share a bed with a cold, floppy fish, but he couldn’t eat one. I am sure the 9000 thread Egyptian cotton sheets that *only* cost $1500 made that hurt a little less.
But now that Chris is free from the Goop, one of his first moves has been to go back to caveman status. And tossing a hint of shade at his ex in the process is just an extra perk.
“I am not really vegetarian. I eat meat. I was vegetarian for a long time but, for various reasons, I changed. I’d only eat something that I think I could kill. I’d kill a fish. Not a giraffe.”
I don’t know about you, but I definitely read “various reasons” are “cunty she-devil wife.”
I am sure Paltrow is just absolutely dying inside, dramatically throwing herself on her all white, organic, hemp woven couch, sobbing into her one meal of the day, a shake made from the breastmilk of Himalayan goddesses and some of her happy water. Now, since Gwyneth is the queen of contradictions, she is doing all this in between smoking cancer sticks, because being a fucking nutjob about your crunchy food while puffing away on tiny white deaths of death and ammonia makes all sorts of sense.
You keep going on with your bad self, Chris. Enjoy that fish. Smother it in some duck fat, pair it with a side of thick cut bacon, and toss it all down with cheap ass beer.