An Open Letter to Mr Gerard Butler
Dearest Gerry,
I like you, I really do. You’re adorable. You seem like you’re a really nice, unpretentious guy that someone can just toss back a beer with, you get along great with Craig Ferguson, you have a good sense of humour and you have a great Scottish accent. I happen to think you’re a very good actor as well, so you’ll understand that what I’m about to tell you is meant in the nicest way possible.
I have a problem with your face.
It’s a cute face and you have a great smile, so my issue isn’t in the nip/ tuck department. It’s just that – well, frankly, we don’t get to see it all that often. Sure you’re great in interviews where you’re beaming at the crowd and trying to teach crazy Japanese women to speak Scottish which I could have told you was never going to work out because they don’t know how to pronounce their ‘R’s. (Ditto the singing of Phantom of the Opera with them… somehow listening to “Opela” just doesn’t have the same effect). But really, you have a knack for picking the absolute worst movie roles for your looks.
I mean 300 was orgasmically kick-ass and made me want to run around on the streets shouting “THIS! IS! SPARTA!” and kicking random people into bushes. The experience, however, was somewhat marred by the enormous amount of screen time taken up by your copious and somewhat wiry facial hair.
I have no objection to the fact that we spent half the movie looking at your bulging 8-pack and that you were, for a few minutes, fully nude (at which point the movie tagline “Prepare for Glory” made perfect sense) but the scenes where you where having sex with your perky-nippled wife? Uh-uh. Not sexy. We were holding our breaths half the time, waiting to see if she would get rope burn down her chest from your pointy (conical) beard. Also, seeing as how you spent half the film yelling loudly at your soldiers, the Persian King, some random dwarf, the audience and really, anybody who would listen, we got to see more of the inside of your mouth than the outside of it.
And don’t get me started on Phantom of the Opera, mister!
You sing great and all, but that ridiculous acid burn down three-quarters of your face and your greasy, slicked back, half balding hair that looks like someone half-heartedly chewed a bunch of rat tails into shreds and threw them up all over your head? It feels as if you have some real life facial defect that you’re so shy about that you cover it up and make me feel like nudging you in the ribs and saying “Oh, you!” coyly when I finally discover that the things you were hiding all along were your cute little dimples.
My point is, I am speaking in your best interests. And I’m rooting for you, I really am. Just please, for the sake of the free world, show a little bit more (unscarred) face the next time you decide it would be a good idea to die for your country or abduct a pre-pubescent prima donna into your underground lair! Chicks will dig it. And if I’m not mistaken, a few guys out there will dig it too.
Look, I tell you what. If this thing between me and Johnny doesn’t work out (unlikely as that is), I’ll offer myself as your very own personal agent. Come on now, there's no need to be shy. Help me to help you, okay?
You know where I’m at,
This Girl
PS I hear you’re single at the moment. How long are you planning to make that last? Just, oh you know, in case.
I like you, I really do. You’re adorable. You seem like you’re a really nice, unpretentious guy that someone can just toss back a beer with, you get along great with Craig Ferguson, you have a good sense of humour and you have a great Scottish accent. I happen to think you’re a very good actor as well, so you’ll understand that what I’m about to tell you is meant in the nicest way possible.
I have a problem with your face.
It’s a cute face and you have a great smile, so my issue isn’t in the nip/ tuck department. It’s just that – well, frankly, we don’t get to see it all that often. Sure you’re great in interviews where you’re beaming at the crowd and trying to teach crazy Japanese women to speak Scottish which I could have told you was never going to work out because they don’t know how to pronounce their ‘R’s. (Ditto the singing of Phantom of the Opera with them… somehow listening to “Opela” just doesn’t have the same effect). But really, you have a knack for picking the absolute worst movie roles for your looks.
I mean 300 was orgasmically kick-ass and made me want to run around on the streets shouting “THIS! IS! SPARTA!” and kicking random people into bushes. The experience, however, was somewhat marred by the enormous amount of screen time taken up by your copious and somewhat wiry facial hair.
I have no objection to the fact that we spent half the movie looking at your bulging 8-pack and that you were, for a few minutes, fully nude (at which point the movie tagline “Prepare for Glory” made perfect sense) but the scenes where you where having sex with your perky-nippled wife? Uh-uh. Not sexy. We were holding our breaths half the time, waiting to see if she would get rope burn down her chest from your pointy (conical) beard. Also, seeing as how you spent half the film yelling loudly at your soldiers, the Persian King, some random dwarf, the audience and really, anybody who would listen, we got to see more of the inside of your mouth than the outside of it.
And don’t get me started on Phantom of the Opera, mister!
You sing great and all, but that ridiculous acid burn down three-quarters of your face and your greasy, slicked back, half balding hair that looks like someone half-heartedly chewed a bunch of rat tails into shreds and threw them up all over your head? It feels as if you have some real life facial defect that you’re so shy about that you cover it up and make me feel like nudging you in the ribs and saying “Oh, you!” coyly when I finally discover that the things you were hiding all along were your cute little dimples.
My point is, I am speaking in your best interests. And I’m rooting for you, I really am. Just please, for the sake of the free world, show a little bit more (unscarred) face the next time you decide it would be a good idea to die for your country or abduct a pre-pubescent prima donna into your underground lair! Chicks will dig it. And if I’m not mistaken, a few guys out there will dig it too.
Look, I tell you what. If this thing between me and Johnny doesn’t work out (unlikely as that is), I’ll offer myself as your very own personal agent. Come on now, there's no need to be shy. Help me to help you, okay?
You know where I’m at,
This Girl
PS I hear you’re single at the moment. How long are you planning to make that last? Just, oh you know, in case.
She said, she said at 2:35 pm
2 Comments:
*gasp* keep your hands off my johnny!!!
Excuse me? I think you've got yourself mistaken for... well, me! SO THERE!
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