Can you imagine how tiring, how soul-crushingly, hair-curlingly, taint-spasmingly exhausting it must be to be married to Jax Freakin’ Taylor? This is a man so inanely and quotidianly awful that even Maya Angelou would put that cackling canary back in its cage and tell it never to sing again. That is true of almost all of these men, though, with the exception of my favorite jungle gym, Jason, the only man in the group who actually knows what a Napoleon complex is. This was really an hour that made me ask if men are okay.