Once again, I failed to be named "People's" Sexiest Man Alive! I didn't even make their top ten.This is where I sit with my mouth and chins agape for 20 minutes.
Later, That Same Night
Sure, I'll admit I'm getting a few miles on me, but the increased frequency of pebble dings and the vast assortment of pit stops are flattering.
I am a bit moth-gnawed. Some of my stitchwork has popped and I'm missing a button, a spine, and "Bee Movie" TV Juniors.
But, hey, there was no plastic surgery when I was born. They had Melmac surgery and home perms. And me without a Toni Twin.
Nevertheless, get real, "People!" I do have all of my gut and a fluent grasp of the English Leather.
The tat-eww was a mistake, granted. I didn't realize the day would come when I'd grow love handles or I never would have had those artist's renderings of love handles inked.
I checked the fine print of the Sexiest Man Alive list with a magnifying goblet. After the cross-eyed headache subsided and my windedness from the sobs, I saw I was designated as the 3,742,984,006th Sexiest Man Alive. It's an honor just to be nominated.
Ba-heck-loney!
I'm sandwiched between #3,742,984,005, Aimee Mann, and just above a Keebler Elf suffering from a rare skin condition, the heartbreak of crumbs.
Oh, well, there's always next year. I'll be ready.
I'm going to floss after every yawn, splurge on BriteTrachea bleachings, pasteurize the cowlick, belch with reverb, and coach my Streptococcus pneumoniae bacteria to win at Texas Hold'em.
Manly. Lively. Sexly.
