She's hot; I got the memo. He likes her dress; message received. I hear him loud and clear: she's at least a 9. Yes, she has a great ass. Yes, I'm sure she works out.
I'm not sure how this trend of being his hot girl confidante started, but I gotta nip this shit in the bud quick because honestly, I'd rather listen to construction on my roof at 7am on a Sunday morning than hear him prattle on about these other women.
I'd rather listen to the song "Castle on the Cloud" from the Les Misérables soundtrack (aka the worst song of all time) for 24 hours straight than have his inane chatter enter my ear canal. Seriously, at this point, I'd rather listen to a full-length CD of nothing but microphone feedback and children's crying than be an audience to his constant comments.
I don't expect to be the only woman that would ever turn his head and I'm not insecure, but he doesn't need to give me a play-by-play of his thought process every time a moderately hot woman enters his field of vision. For the love of god, stuff it! It's rude.