Good ol Boys

Although I already have tickets to the X-Men The Last Stand for tomorrow night ( after bugging the poor gals at the box office for days threatening them with leery stares ), I have this irrational urge to rush over for the midnight screening tonight despite the fact that it might be detrimental to my work the next morning. After all it's hard to resist the tempting lures of the audacious X-Hunks.

From the skanky way I write, you'll be forgiven for thinking that I actually drool all over the big bad boys like the irresistible Hugh Jackman baring his excellent biceps as the rambunctious Wolverine but the truth is, like the long lamented Jean Grey, I usually go crazy for the good ol' boys like Scott Summers. Surely the original goody-two-shoes of the mutants - of course that was way before the Powers That Be at Marvel Comics decided to morph him into an unfaithful, indecisive bastard who sleeps around.

But that's a personal gripe.


What do ya mean, you don't like me? Is it my hair?
Perhaps it's Mother Nature's way of striking a delicate balance, a symbolical yin-yang of sorts since with my wicked streak of evil, it would be horrifying to meet a romantic match in someone equally malevolent. That would be like Maleficent doing the dirty horizontal tango with Dr Evil - and we all know nothing good would come of it.

Don't get me wrong. No one knows better than I the delicious charm of a smirking, leather-jacketed bad boy astride his battered motorcycle but that's just not what I'm aiming for in the long run. Believe me, those bad boys tend to sneak out in the wee hours of the morning, leaving everyone else biting their dust as they move on to their next conquest. No way are they hanging around to help with the cleaning up and the morning pancakes when they could be out there spreading hell, heartbreak and mayhem.

So the big bad boys can cast their siren lures with their heavy-hooded dark eyes promising wicked delights to no avail. I'm the kinda guy who gets all revved up over the good ol' boys - the sweet mama boys, the upright, responsible goody-two-shoe guys who work hard the required 9 to 5 to bring home the butter and the bacon. The guys who say please and thank you, the guys who step aside for the ladies and give up their seats for the octogenarian tottering by. The guys who'd do their own ironing without asking, who'd wash the dishes after dinner before being told. The guys who step up to the plate quietly without making a fuss to defend all that's good.

Of course, being good certainly doesn't mean being whining, overly sensitive-James-Blunt-wimpy. Been told recently by well-meaning friends that I actually go for the square-jawed, macho, silently stolid hunks and I guess it could be true. Just gimme an earnest working salaryman in a suit - and I'd be all over him in seconds. Add a tie and some thick glasses hiding his superman blues and I'd drag him down under his workdesk for some sweet lovin.

Well, I never said I wanted to be a freaking saint :)

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In other news, Big Bicep Barry has finally purchased a spanking new cellphone ( one that is way more impressive than my dinky phone, dammit! ) which signals his imminent return to the digitally connected world. Well-meaning advice to baptize the newborn cell with holy water was received with shocked silence from him.