I’ll second Paris Hilton, but I can’t understand how anyone finds Ann Coulter hot, with that stringy, boney face and neck.
Michelle Malkin, OTOH, would be just fine, as long as the only talking she did would be to beg me to do whatever it was I wanted to do with her next, and to thank me for it afterwards.
Ditto. I think that Russell Crowe is the finest hunk of man-meat ever to waltz out of the Southern Hemisphere. People say, “Omigod, did you see Russell Crowe on [talk show]?” and I’m like, “STOP! Shut. Up. Now.” I stick my fingers in my ears and go “NANANANANANANANA” because I do not want to know anything about his real life. I’m never, ever, every going to meet him and there is absolutely nothing to be gained by knowing anything about him.
Apparently, he threw a phone at somebody at some point. And I cannot emphasize enough how much really I don’t care.
I’m not in lurve with the actual Russell Crowe, I am in lurve with my mental image of Russell Crowe, and my mental image is kind to puppies and intense and deep and has a thing for brainy astrophysicists, and my goal is to protect that mental image from contamination by any and all real-life information.
Yep, Kelly’s got to be at the top of that list. The few times I’ve seen the R&K show, I’ve felt the overpowering urge to shout “Shut up. Shut UP. SHUT THE FUCK UP. SHUT HE FUCK UP NOW, YOU SPASTIC PIXIE-WHORE!”
And occasionally, she is shutting up, and I’m like “mmmmmmm”.
Closet? Only the actual uniform and the Swastika flag she salutes to.
Marfan’s? Google, bro. Coulter makes the late Robert Wadlow look positively petite.