shaken, not slurred

This. Is tough.

Saying goodbye is never easy. Unless you’re saying goodbye to a cavity. Or a lien. Or a crazy ex-girlfriend who stole away your soul and your Chicago Blackhawks jersey . . .

Alright, I would apologize for digressing, but that would mean I have to apologize for, basically, my entire life. Soooooo,  I’ll spare you that inappropriate and exaggerated space of time  and just go with the words. If I can find them, somewhere. Because, truth be told, the words are failing me in a big time kind of way. The idea that this here post is the very last one I will ever serve up on this blog?

Okay, I’m failing on the words, because this is an April Fool’s joke. And soooooo, Got? Meet you!

Sorry peeps, but I’m gonna blame the calendar for this episode.

This here be an “Annoyances Post”. Part 184 . . or whatever the fuck, not sure, don’t care, lost count, who cares? It’s all about that time of year when a young man’s fancy turns to things he loves to hate. And I got plenty, starting with the more accepted use of the term annoyance in our vernacular . . .

Pet Peeve- The term pet peeve is an utterly ridiculous premise. Why WOULD you keep a peeve as a pet? Makes no sense.  Pets are to be enjoyed. You love your pet, you spoil your pet, you take silly pictures of your pet. Your pet is your silent partner in crime. Pets are God’s greatest creation since beer. A peeve, on the other hand . . sucks harder than Jemma Jamison in front of a camera. A peeve is something you capture, tie up and carry out into the middle of the woods and throw into a ditch you dug earlier. After which you light it on fire and toast a few rounds to its horrible demise. Before covering up the remains with lime, kitty litter, stones and mulch. Umm . . . let’s move on.

“Fam”- It’s family. I understand that most peeps want to spend as little time as possible with family, but saving three letters and a millionth of a second in order to kitsch the word into a warm fuzzy alternative is preposterous.

People Who Use Coupons (Who ain’t me)- When I use coupons, I’m being a responsible consumer. When anybody else uses coupons, they’re just being annoying.

Flo

Mr. Vera Farmiga- Goes without saying . . .

Apple Stems- I love apples, in spite of those evil little antennae that sit on top of their shiny little heads. I can’t eat an apple until I remove the stem, it totally creeps me out.

Short Pronged Forks- I cannot use a short pronged fork. Ever. If there are no long pronged forks, I will either eat with my hands or not at all.

Starbucks- If they want to play mommy and daddy to the world, start with making a decent cup of coffee. It hasn’t happened yet . . .

“March Madness”- The ‘madness’ is make believe. Tournament teams aren’t seeded based on winning or losing their way into that spot. They’re seeded by some suit in a boardroom whose sole responsibility is to paint something provocative. The same teams always show up in the Final Four and the same teams always win it all, so spare me the ‘Cinderella’ talk . . until Washington University in St. Louis is crowned champion, coo?

PG-13 Horror Movies- It’s like fat free ice cream, non-alcoholic beer, hemp tattoos, non-toxic paint . . .Why even fucking bother?

village idiotsSelfies- Nothing says “Look at me, I’m a self absorbed jack wad!” like pointing a camera at your own mug. If you’re not up on your selfie 411, you might think the image to your left serves as the nadir to a creepy trend. Obviously, you don’t have a Facebook account . . .

Zippers- We can send George Clooney to the moon, yet we haven’t been able to come up with a better way to close up shop on our most valuable real estate? I could understand the utility of these mini-chainsaws back when Philadelphia had a professional baseball team and the Titanic was still considered a tragic event and not the best thing that ever happened to James Cameron. But it doesn’t make a bit of sense that selfies get a stick and we’re still stuck with zippers.

Family Car Stickers- Never mind the fact these stick figure decals are annoying as fuck, they also happen to be an incredibly stupid idea. Think about it, you’re advertising your great big happy family to complete strangers . . with road rage issues. What’s the worst that could happen?

The Irish Post Pt. V

The Irish PostThere are two reasons this place is still happening.

For one, it’s the peeps who find their way here and then spell my misbegotten rants with their graceful sense and their timeless sensibilities. In spite of myself, I’ve got the most articulate, spirited, talented, beautiful bloggers that WordPress has to offer. I’m not being hyperbolic, either. I don’t do hyperbole on week days, it’s against my religion. Cayman Thorn may not be a real person, but you all have managed to bring him to life, and keep him there.

The other reason I keep Drinks Well? The Irish Post, of course. It’s the Holy Day for yours truly. It’s not my reason for being, but it is my reason for being certain enough with the mystery of our existential paths. When you can square the roots of this great big universe based on the glorious milieu of familiar smiles all dressed in green, you’ve landed on the 17th.

I understand it’s been a week since ‘me Irish brogue went rogue, but that’s ‘coo. The Irish Post- like St. Patrick’s Day- doesn’t concern itself with running on time. All it has to do is show up, and it has for the last five years. This happens to be one year longer than the “Gipper’s” college career at Notre Dame and the Irish Potato Famine . . which did not happen concurrently if you’re scoring at home.

My social calendar has gone all Howard Hughes (sans the billion dollar bank account) in recent years. I have whittled my tea time gatherings with friends into monthly-ish excursions. This reset is in accordance with my preferences for peace and solitude over poker games and sports bars. It has worked to great effect because just like candy, when you miniaturize something, the flavor only gets better.

We kicked off the evening at Annie Baileys. The friendly confines have been witness to great moments in bachelor history and I wore the Ireland soccer shirt gifted me by Ms. Isla Bonita from back in the day to commemorate the occasion.

Guinness CanI ordered a Guinness for me, Coors Light for Big Papi . . two shots of Hennessy.

“Make them friendly,” I pleaded with the waitress.

No sooner had our drinks arrived than Red came over with her daughter in tow, dressed all in St Patrick and a day’s worth of party. They were on their way home while we were just getting started, but I coaxed them into prettying up our table for a spell.

My girl sat next to Big Papi while her daughter joined me, and for the space of a little while, the four of us settled the world’s business. Red’s daughter is a beautiful creature who just so happens to be more intense than a Scorcese flick. She’d never have to buy a drink if she didn’t feel like it, but it’s not Happy Hour that concerns her so much as the rest of her life and who to spend it with. And maybe I’m jaded and maybe I’m too damned old for my own sake, but I happen to think the girl should fetch those eyes and happily accept those free drinks until she meets a guy whose balls match his bank account. We talk about politics and education and her kids- she has two from a failed marriage. She’s an amazing teacher and a great mother, but then again, she had the best example going.

As the second round of happy showed up at our table, the girls bid us adieu with hugs and kisses. And then it was me and Big Papi left to our own devices, which is either the most dangerous thing in the world, or the funniest. When the place started going loud and young, we moved our two man caravan over to a kitschy little hole in the wall near his place.

The waitress knows Big Papi’s drink before he sits down, while I order another Guinness as we settle in while Elvis Costello is pumping it up from the way back of 1978. And then we’re talking on how great music used to sound and then we’re pining for the days of Dr. J and then we’re laughing at how we used to think Rambo was great cinema. We come to a gentleman’s agreement on how age is just a number; a huge, fucking slab of a number indeed . . but still, just a number.

It was a good place going as St Patrick’s Night went crazy to the wicked ideas of a simple good time and a metamorphosis occurred, wherein a number transformed itself into times and places and rock ‘n roll. And so what if we’re not as young as we used to be? It’s alright, because we’re never gonna be the kind of old we always used to fear. Not ever.

Big Papi’s kid made the scene and I bought him a Guinness. We toasted to girls dressed in green and then the conversation went simpler than that. We talked on the Philadelphia Eagles, we argued on instant replay and we laughed like hell about my 40th birthday; a party that almost never started and then almost never ended.

It was some time later when a fine young chica caught the kid’s attention, after which he sent over a drink. We wished him luck and then I drove Big Papi home and then he told me to thank Red for showing up and I told him I would. He’s always gonna be in love with her and I’m never gonna hold it against him.

I hit the road and I turn on some Elvis and I watch the dashboard clock move St. Patrick three hundred and sixty four days away from me. There’s some melancholy in the thought that another year will pass, but there’s plenty more sustenance in the good times we made happen.

It’s all you can ask.

The Art of the Bad Guy

Vera Farmiga Bates MotelJean Paul Sartre once said that evil is a product of making abstract that which is concrete.

That’s some cool sounding shit right there. Of course, his true meaning is well beyond my grasp. Jean Paul was a big picture kind of guy with a voracious appetite for railing on the inequities of a world whose method is pure madness. I tend to steer clear of deep thoughts unless I’m wearing floaties, or drinking beer. Both . . .

Anyways, I’m hijacking the French philosopher’s intellectual property for the sake of a post . . about villains. The romanticized ones of stage and screen, whose mercurial tendencies are cooler than an old school Martini; whose cult of personality wins us over in spite of the mayhem they create with their existential middle fingers. As for that lovely shot of Vera Farmiga? It follows my Vera Farmiga Rules

Cayman’s Vera Farmiga Rules:

Vera’s allowed to show up whenever she damn well pleases. Because she’s Vera Fucking Farmiga. If that’s not a good enough reason to include her in this bad guys post, gimme a minute and I’ll think of something.

With few exceptions, the bad guys in reality are pedantic and crude. There’s no gray area when it comes to villains such as Hitler, Manson and the Kardashians. The concrete understanding of the bad guy only becomes abstract- and thus, quite pliable- when the antagonist is written rather than born. This is where badassery becomes high art.

As for those villains of stage and screen, I’ve been a fool for ’em ever since Darth Vader made long, black capes fashionable again. The contrast between bad ass father and do good son made it easy for me. Luke wore white. He contemplated the fate of the galaxy and his place in it on a daily basis. Dad blew up planets just to make a point. Game? I’d like you to meet set and match.

The Dark Knight is a fairly interesting fellow in his own right. But even he needed a little help from his bad ass friends in order to get three blockbuster movies out of a well worn franchise. Joker is a Hall of Fame villain in my book. He’s a natty dresser who doesn’t give a fig about the way things are because he sees the mind numbing hypocrisy of convention. He puts the hilarity in anarchy. I admire that. Catwoman ain’t gonna let no glass ceiling stop her. Bane is the most exciting thing to happen to Pittsburgh football since Lynn Swann. Harvey Dent didn’t get interesting until half his face burned off. And Ra’s al Ghul launched Liam Neeson’s incarnation as an action hero. Pretty super, if you ask me.

Let’s face it, without Hannibal Lecter, Silence of the Lambs is a CSI movie. He’s a zombie with a PhD whose vigilantism is endearing. Jaws is Nova without a man eating shark. If Jack Torrance doesn’t lose his mind, he’s just a writer trying to get published. Ho . . hum. The only reason Verbal Kint would be published is because he derived all that mad creativity from his days as a cold blooded killer.

The Way of the Bad Guy is perhaps best exemplified in mob flicks. Tony Montana gave us this classic bad guy walk off. If Tony was a bodega owner rather than a coked up millionaire drug lord, this scene is relegated to YouTube (Keyword: Crazy Uncle Refuses to Pay Market Fare).

Mob movies are where the bad guys really shine. Seriously, if the gang from Goodfellas is bad? Why would you want to be good? The silver screen alchemy of the mafia is a magical phenomenon. Hacking up a guy in your trunk isn’t so humorous in real life. On the big screen? It’s fucking hilarious.

The Godfather is like the Bible, in that every lesson on life can be found within its pages. And while that’s all well and good, the thematic resonance of fallen angels is what fuels this timeless masterpiece. I was captivated by Sons of Anarchy once I discovered the DNA of Michael Corleone was coursing through the veins of Jax Teller. Complicated men whose best intentions led them down a ruthless path of destruction from which they could never escape. That’s what makes the bad guys so very interesting to me.

As a fan of Walking Dead, I’ve watched Rick Grimes go from gun toting sheriff to bad ass gangster. He’s no longer protecting the gang from the bad guy. He has become the bad guy. Carol too. Theirs is the necessary evil of a world without rules. The subtleties of their transformation were hidden in the long, slow march on the outside. Alexandria has revealed their monstrous alter egos. As far as I’m concerned, the volatile properties of their current state make them infinitely more dynamic. Eat your hearts out Bonnie and Clyde, before they do.

I must confess that Norman Bates failed my bad guy analytics until Bates Motel gave him new life. Before that, he was little more than a reluctant social commentator on the perils of expansionism. So he killed a few guests, big whoop. Anyone who works in the service industry can relate to that. He didn’t break bad- for me- until he got the crazy hot mom to coach up his inner demons.

Vera as a bad ass . . it’s almost too good to be true.

Add? Meet endum. . .

It has come to my attention that this blog post on bad asses omitted one of the all timers in Lorne Malvo of Fargo. Every once in a while, an actor takes the written page and turns it into “Holy shit! Did you see that?!”. That’s what Billy Bob Thornton was doing across ten classic episodes.

Lorne Malvo’s moral turpitude lends itself to some of the most wickedly memorable scenes this side of the Coen Brothers. He’s got more angles than Frank Lloyd Wright. He’s meaner than a rabid junkyard dog . . on PCP. He’s more calculating than IBM’s Watson. He’s evil concentrate. And I could not get enough of him.

Big props to Mama Mick for her kick save, it was a beauty.

 

The DressWhen asked what color I was seeing in that picture, silly me responded with 1996. Seriously, I thought Monica Lewinsky was back in town when I heard that a dress had gotten busy on gossip. I realize that I’m dating myself, but that’s coo. So long as Fleetwood Mac is riding shotgun . . .

. . . #cleancutrick is a real thing, and it’s a real thing for good reason. My man Andrew Lincoln looks good sans the Ulysses S. Grant face rug. He’s back to the Love Actually Andrew Lincoln. And it’s a much better place, for everybody. The ladies get their eye candy back, and I feel so much younger than I did before he shaved it off.

. . . Is Walking Dead inside a re-boot whilst wearing the same old boots? Just wondering.

. . .Here’s a fun fact. If you order waffles at International House of Pancakes, they have 341 varieties to choose from. But . . . if you order pancakes at Waffle House? They shoot your ass.

. . . Speaking of Love Actually, was there some kind of secret menu postscript agreement forged inside the production of that classic flick that we’re not privy to? Whereby Andrew Lincoln and Liam Neeson agreed to sell their romantic souls to blood lust and mayhem in their next IMDB lives? Cause these brothers have gone more cold blooded than Clay Morrow in their latest character incarnations.

. . . And oh yeah, when Starbucks ‘fesses up to having a ‘secret menu’? It’s not about being clever for the discriminating customer. They’re simply ‘fessing up to the fact they’re too lazy for the other 99 percent of the population that ain’t got time to Google search a secret menu in the first place.

The “No one was giving a shit until you asked them to” Top 5 Cayman TV Crushes 

5- How I Met Your Mother- My official bodyguard for the zombie apocalypse, Ashley, turned me onto this one. I should have known she’d be spot on, seeing as how she’s funnier in her sleep than I am wide awake. 

4- Continuum- Time travel, advanced weaponry, hot chica couture and gamboling with Bradbury. What’s. Not. To. Like?  

3- Bates Motel- Two words. Vera Farmiga. 

2- Gotham- It’s funky, sexy coolness. It’s as if the comics went cable. 

1- Sons of Anarchy- This one was a late clubhouse entry, but it climbed with a bullet. Many bullets. 

. . . It’s funny how professional football got all horned up on the LA market again, after completely ignoring it for the last couple decades. And it’s even funnier how the teams being mentioned in this move, all have one thing in common; cranky landlords (in three different cities) who ain’t had a sniff of a Super Bowl since George Bush was learning how to spell terror.

. . . You know a football team that ain’t moving? The New England Patriots. Four Super Bowl titles since 2001. Just? Meet saying.

. . . I am in big love with Gatorade for bringing this classic back for 50.

. . . I loves it because, in my humblest of opinions, Michael Jordan was the greatest player I’ve ever seen play. Any sport. Ever.

. . . My second choice is Barry Bonds. But hey, that’s another post for another time.

. . . I pray the Department of Homeland Security doesn’t go away. Shit, if they fold, what happens to late night TV monologues?

. . . Okay, you got me. I don’t believe in this whole ‘War on Terror’ thing in the least bit. It’s all bullshit. How do I know? Because not once in all this time has John Carpenter been brought in for questioning. That’s how.

. . .If there was a war on terror happening, the terrorists would be winning. Since, yanno . . gas prices are on the rise again. But seeing as how Humvee owners would be losing big time, I’d be torn.

. . . The only way I buy a “3 Way Parka” is if Vera Farmiga and Fiona Apple are included. I know, that one came out of nowhere, but I felt like I needed something to mellow all that terrorism harsh. And Vera just so happens to be a mighty tonic, and Fiona just so happens to be mighty hot. I’m a simple man.

. . . I’m not gonna lie. This simple man is just a tad bitter that self-service check out lanes waited so fucking long to be invented. I really could have used them back in the day, when I was buying porn mags and condoms on a semi-daily basis.

. . . Thanks technology! You’re almost as lazy as those assholes at Starbucks!

. . . If you would have asked me what the show The Chew was all about, my guess would’ve started and ended with Chewbacca. After watching a couple minutes of the show recently, I’m pretty sure I was right.

I got nothing as far as Oscar picks are concerned. I blame it on the Ice Age we’re currently experiencing on the East Coast- as predicted by Dennis Quaid in The Day After Tomorrow.

While everybody else goes all Jimi Hendrix over directors and dresses and actors and adapted screenplays . . I prefer to concentrate on the peeps who serve up golden boy. I’m funny like that.

So . . . Neil Patrick Harris as host? To borrow from his classic turn as Barney- the hilariously jaded misogynist pig- on How I Met Your Mother . . . Gee? Meet Nius. You guys are related, and I . . am your father. Okay, maybe that was Barney and Cayman Thorn, collaborating at last call. Scary thought.

There is nothing but scary good potential involved in a Neil Patrick Harris night at the Oscars. He’s young enough to play with hashtag, and mean it. He’s old enough to remind certain of us folk how he survived the deadly career affliction otherwise known as Child Actor (See Doogie Howser). Not only survived it, he kicked ass on it.

No matter how well things go tonight, he’s not married to the Oscars (Which, no doubt pleases those cranky Christian conservatives). He can take this Academy Awards thing and he can leave it just the same. And that right there brings some much needed edge to an awards banquet that has gone too long to the dance with Billy Crystal.

Okay. You didn’t ask me for my Oscar nods, so this is what you get . . .I only go with the Big Five on account of my attention deficit . .  something or other, don’t remember. . sorry.

Best Actor- Alex Rodriguez. He’s not nearly as handsome as Streep, nor as pretty as DiCaprio. But he’s so damned good at lying his ass off that the sporting world has called him out on it. That, is some work right there.

Best Actress- Bruce Jenner. Too soon?

Best Director– Stephen Spielberg. Too late?

Best Picture- Joe Biden Too disturbing?  

Was that five already? My ADD is saying nah, but that pic to my right is asking me to leave the room before I attach a chicka or a bow wow to it (too late! Fucking ADD, why do you insist on following me into dementia?! Give me some time to breathe!)

Anyways, hope you enjoyed this Oscar night special as much as, umm, I did?

Fifty Shades of Hey!

50 shadesHere’s some stuff that makes me go fifty shades of hey. . .

Who really thought Fifty Shades of Grey would make for a solid flick? Here’s the Cayman Thorn math on why E.L. James’s booty tips don’t translate to the box office

 

Say adios to fifty percent of your audience before you get to post production, because dudes do not want any part of this movie. With dudes, if it’s not actual porn, it may as well be Disney. Women will go . . but not in the droves that created major bank for the book. Half of the female population will stay away because they don’t want to show up to a soft porn movie all by their lonesome, or worse yet, with a female . . friend. And of course, there’s a quarter of the other half of that female population that won’t go out of religious indignation. Shame of it is, these females really, really want to check the shit out, because they didn’t buy the book. Where the fuck were they going to hide it?  In the linen closet? That’s for liquor!

So . . you’re down to twelve and a half percent of the population. Half of that population is gay. Gay people don’t do stupid shit when it comes to cinema, like, blow twenty bucks on a flick about heterosexual people trying to appear interesting.

We’re left with six percent. Out of which you have the homeless, shut ins, public officials who get all this shit for free, the elderly, the underage, Comic Con peeps, serial killers who have better things to do with their time and the Duggars.

Basically, eleven people are gonna see this flick. And there’s your Cayman Thorn math on Fifty Shades of Grey.

And not for nothing, but I will read Fifty Shades before I read A-Rod’s apology letter.

Kanye West is bat shit crazy, but I would read his apology letter if it was set to music.

As for someone who is NOT bat shit crazy in the least, Kelly Clarkson is a cool chica in my book. She’s comfortable in her own skin, and she’s not going all Marie Osmond on us. She’s cool with her body image. Good for her. And even better for young girls who need that kind of example.

If the Cubs win the World Series this year, as predicted in Back to the Future 2, I’m going to hate Michael J. Fox for the rest of my life. Sadly . .

As far as Brian Williams is concerned, I’m really thankful he’s not an air traffic controller . . . Why he insisted on making shit up? No fucking idea. Brian Williams making up news that didn’t happen is like Brad Pitt making up women he didn’t have sex with. No need! But I will say this. The man will get back, and he will get paid. Journalism has been replaced with consumerism inside the uber competitive market of fast food news. Pretty sells. And Brian Williams . . he can sell pretty.

Nascar came back? Again?

I love the Association, but the NBA All Star Game should never come back.

Rumor has it Michael Shannon might have snuck his crazy self into Batman vs Superman as Doomsday, and lemme tell you . . I haven’t been this ready for crazy? Well, since this morning.

If Bruce Jenner serves time, does he go into a male or a female correctional facility?  Personally, I’m hoping for Area 51.

Those fucking douchebags- otherwise known as 5 Seconds of Summer– went and fucked around with an all time classic, “What I Like About You”. This becomes Reason # 4,318 as to why I would punch these assholes in the face if I ever score a backstage pass to one of their slumber parties.

I’m confused. Is it ISIS or ISIL or IS . . . or should we just call ’em the Cleveland Browns?

With Tiger Woods taking time away from his game (since 2009) . . . can he bring Alex Rodriguez with him? That’d be super convenient for us Yankees fans who are hating the idea of being mathematically eliminated before pitchers and catchers . . .

Speaking of golf, Tim Tebow can crush a golf ball from what I’ve read. And if I was ever gonna watch golf again? I mean, after that one time when I watched Tiger Woods win his first Masters? . . . Tebow could get me to watch.

Speaking of football. I hope the New England Patriots win again next year. Just to clear up the ‘Gate’ shit for once and for all. I realize that I suck as a Miami Dolphins fan, but hey, I learned from them.

I don’t agree with President Obama on much (Outside of Cuba and Guinness and Five Guys and Immigration . . okay, maybe we’re cooler than Snoop Dog,), but anyways, leave his family alone already. And please stop with this whole POTUS bullshit because it is extremely disrespectful to the office he holds. He’s the President of the United States. I didn’t have to vote for him to be very good with that fact.

Chris Christie does realize that a Super PAC has nothing to do with fast food, right?

And lastly, but not leastly, here’s one for those musical miscreants whose faces I ain’t punched just yet. This here, is how the A side of rock and roll is supposed to sound.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vera ListWith temps chillier than Kris Kardashian’s undergarments, it’s high time for another list of hot chicas, served up by yours truly. I tried reaching Vera Farmiga- again- in the hopes that she might be interested in writing the foreword to this post, but she declined. Actually . . her husband declined. And then her lawyer declined . . and then, yeah . . the authorities, they felt the need to get all up in ‘ma business.

Anyways . . . on with the show!

Eva Green- The ivory skin. The boil that purrs below her surface. The way she strikes you with that wicked glance . . and the British accent. And so, you mean to tell me if the colonies had lost the Revolutionary War, we’d have even more of that going on over here right now? What the fuck were we thinking?

Katie Seagal- She’s the Lady MacBeth of biker babes. And she’s sexier than ever. And speaking of SOA babes . . .

Ally Walker- How do I put this nicely? Her character on Sons was a total cunt. She made bikers cringe, she made men get down on their knees to satisfy her needs. I’ll take your 50 Shades of Grey and I’ll raise you her.

Natasha Henstridge- Speaking of bad girls, she plays the kind of hard core bitch that makes this boy swoon. She’d toss her lover in a compactor if he didn’t master her domain. I’m in deep love with that kind of sexy.

JNatashaada Pinkett Smith- Since I’m on a mean sexy streak, I’d be remiss if I didn’t include JP Smooth. The way she plays Fish Mooney on Gotham . . well, I have to believe that’s what you’d be getting late in the night. Some Victoria’s Secret, with Barry White running the turn table, and a bottle of bub sitting on the bedside table. Okay, where was I?

Julianna Margulies- Elegance? Check. Sophistication? Check. Confidence? Check. Beauty? Check . . . You get ‘me point, the woman is Boss. (Fun Fact: Carol Hathaway, the character she played on ER, was set to be killed off early on, but the show’s writers came to their senses and she ended up hanging around for six season, becoming the only actor on the long running hit show to win an Emmy.) Sexy? Check!

Lauren Cohen- As Maggie on Walking Dead, Cohen provides a deft combination of muscle and smarts. It’s been a slow and beautiful burn since we first met her on the farm back in season 2. Not to mention, yeah . . . the British accent.

Stacey Dash- Those caramel eyes could talk me into anything. The rest of her would just seal the deal.

Rosario Dawson- My mouth waters whenever I utter her name aloud. Rosario . . . Rosario . . Alright, that’s enough. My cat’s giving me this look that’s basically saying, “Maybe it’s a good thing you cut my business off, dude . . .”

Sara Bareilles- I have this dream that the zombie apocalypse has arrived, and she’s my girlfriend. Sara sings me to sleep every night after three hour love sessions by the fire. And then I wake up. And I realize . . no zombie apocalypse yet. Zombies are fucking slackers.

CobieCobie Smulders- She’s simply my latest guilty pleasure on a show (How I Met Your Mother) I swore I would never watch but am currently binge watching. She can come off as indifferent, but that’s only cause you need to do your homework in order to gain her extra credit. Her sense of humor is drier than a gin martini on a budget and when her laugh comes out to play? Ballgame.

Kelly Brook- Oh my God, the eyes. The hair. The ample bosom. The . . where the hell was I? Oh yeah, the everything about her. She plays demure to the loveliest conclusion this side of a California sunset. And the British accent, oh my God . . .

Welp, that does it for my latest installment of what’s hot. I’d like to thank Vera Farmiga for her lovely inspiration, as per usual. And remember kids, if you got shades on during sex? You’re doing it wrong. . .

 

 

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