This might be something from monthy python, i don't know. It's funny as hell
tho.

Good evening. The last scene was interesting from the point of view of a
professional logician because it contained a number of logical fallacies; that
is, invalid propositional constructions and syllogistic forms, of the type so
often committed by my wife.

'All wood burns,' states Sir Bedevere. 'Therefore,' he concludes, 'all that
burns is wood.' This is, of course, pure bullshit. Universal affirmatives can
only be partially converted: all of Alma Cogan is dead, but only some of the
class of dead people are Alma Cogan. 'Oh yes,' one would think. However, my
wife does not understand this necessary limitation of the conversion of a
proposition; consequently, she does not understand me, for how can a woman
expect to appreciate a professor of logic, if the simplest cloth-eared
syllogism causes her to flounder?

For example, given the premise, 'all fish live underwater' and 'all mackerel
are fish', my wife will conclude, not that 'all mackerel live underwater', but
that 'if she buys kippers it will not rain', or that 'trout live in trees', or
even that 'I do not love her any more.' This she calls 'using her intuition'.
I call it 'crap', and it gets me very irritated because it is not logical.
'There will be no supper tonight,' she will sometimes cry upon my return home.
'Why not?' I will ask. 'Because I have been screwing the milkman all day,' she
will say, quite oblivious of the howling error she has made. 'But,' I will
wearily point out, 'even given that the activities of screwing the milkman and
getting supper are mutually exclusive, now that the screwing is over, surely
then, supper may now, logically, be got.' 'You don't love me any more,' she
will now often postulate. 'If you did, you would give me one now and again, so
that I would not have to rely on that rancid Pakistani for my orgasms.' 'I
will give you one after you have got me my supper,' I now usually scream, 'but
not before'-- as you understand, making her bang contingent on the arrival of
my supper. 'God, you turn me on when you're angry, you ancient brute!' she now
mysteriously deduces, forcing her sweetly throbbing tongue down my throat.
'Fuck supper!' I now invariably conclude, throwing logic somewhat joyously to
the four winds, and so we thrash about on our milk-stained floor, transported
by animal passion, until we sink back, exhausted, onto the cartons of yogurt.

I'm afraid I seem to have strayed somewhat from my original brief. But in a
nutshell: sex is more fun than logic-- one cannot prove this, but it 'is' in
the same sense that Mount Everest 'is', or that Alma Cogan 'isn't'.