Hey gals, you know those days when you can just think of nothing but sexytimes all the livelong day, no matter how intently you try to focus on other things? Those are not days on which you should watch the video for Closer and reminisce about the days when Trent Reznor had a neck. 

Above: Michael Fassbender, I find it convenient that you make my jaw drop.

Below: What … how … fuck … I … he … wheh … Jesus … fuck.

This one time, I thought to myself, “Maybe Jon Hamm can’t be hotter than he is on Mad Men, when he’s styled all sleek.”

Sometimes I’m really fucking dumb.

Radio crushes can be brutal. It’s so easy to form a picture in your mind of what this hilarious, intelligent person looks like and your brain just automatically assumes that the owner of this voice you find so enchanting is, of course, devastatingly good looking. And, in this blessed and cursed age of the Internets, it’s very easy to be proven wrong … terribly, gut-wrenchingly wrong. Ira Glass, however, bucks that trend clear over the fence.

He’s almost exactly what you’d expect—nerdy, bespectacled, looking for all the world like he’s very into small-lot, fair trade coffee—but so much more. For lack of a better description, he’s fucking adorable. Look at that face! There’s a whiff of potential for overthinking your time spent in the sack, but so what? Sometimes you want someone who’s going to do sweet things like play with your hair and be a stellar pillowtalk partner instead of conking out after you’re done.

Part three in a series: The Dark Lord’s Finest

That right there is a contraction, not a possessive. 

Oh Ralph, we go back such a long way. Like, such a long way that when I first saw him, in Schindler’s List, my little brain could barely process the very, um, complicated feelings that he inspired. Then I saw him in The English Patient and, even though at the time I thought those sex scenes were really weird, it became my favorite movie, thus cementing the insufferable nature of my taste in films. (Over the years, I came to really get those scenes that involved the ripping of clothes and fingering in a public building.) All that prologue means that I don’t mind so much about the missing nose and the baldness and the long fingernails and the utter embodiment of all the world’s evil … Voldemort just has that je ne sais quoi.

Part two in a series: The Dark Lord’s Finest

Jason Isaacs, man most likely to make me root for villains. For instance, in The Patriot, when he was the dragoon? I could not have given an eighth of a fuck what happened to the heroes. And honestly, I don’t really remember much about that movie other than him in that uniform. These days, he makes me wonder how gauche it is to make endless double entendres about wands. I mean, I could, but it’s probably not a good idea. And anyway, wouldn’t you rather just look at him and let those blue eyes give you the shivers in your nethers? I would.

Part one in a series: The Dark Lord’s Finest

So basically, I have this thing where I don’t really care about what happens to Harry Potter, so long as the Death Eaters are OK. I feel like I might be missing the message, somehow? I don’t know. 

Anyway, I think Alan Rickman’s been the improbable crucible for young ladies’ burgeoning sexuality for two (maybe three?) separate generations. Me, I was like, “Damn Colonel Brandon, you’re a little funny looking. But keep talking. Keep talking. Just … talk.” And now I see young things on the Internets all atwitter about him as Snape, and I feel like a proud old doting aunt. Circle of life, etc.

Back when I found out about Jeremy Irons, I was still in a phase where everything was all ahhhhtistry and all I could bring myself to say was, “Oh, I could listen to Jeremy Irons talk all day! Such a voice!” It’s a teachable moment in the great lesson of Don’t Be A Prude 101: The time you spend chastising yourself for having dirty thoughts is time you will later come to realize could have been spent thinking about slavering on the latissimus dorsi of a shirtless man in leather pants. Such a fucking waste.

I was going to write something relevant here but the trumpeting of armies of angels is just so fucking deafening that I can’t think straight. Trumpet ye for the glory of dat ass, angels. G’on and trumpet. 

(via robotlauren)

AND THE ROCKETS’ RED GLARE

THE OVARIES BURSTING IN AIR

GAVE PROOF THROUGH THE NIGHT

THAT BENNY FEILHABER IS THE FINEST MOTHERFUCKING PLAYER IN THE WORLD CUP

OH SAY DOES THAT

STAR SPANGLED BANNER

YET WAVE?

O’ER THE LAND OF THE FREE

AND THE HOME OF THE HNNNGHHH.

We regret to inform you that the proprietress of CougarBeat is currently being treated for head explosion at an area hospital. We hope that with slow, steady therapy, she will soon be able to look at this picture without blowing up again.

(via charethcutestory)

Sometimes I feel like I need to have a sit down with the forces of the Universe. 

Like, for instance, this case right here.

I feel the need to ask, “HOW THE FUCK IS THIS THE KID FROM JURASSIC PARK?”

And also, “Is it wrong that I really really really want to employ velociraptor metaphors when I look at him? Like, about devouring and eating and hunting?”

I also feel the need to ask why there are so many black and white pictures of this gorgeous little morsel when he is a ginger. He is making the world a more technicolor fabulous place. Let’s celebrate the shit out of that.

Going from zero to HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD. 

Sorry posting has been so infreq … wait. What? I don’t even know.

Perhaps, with all these chef pictures I’ve got on here, I might be giving something away about some sort of latent food issues and maybe I’m a comfort eater and blah blah blah … or maybe I’m some sort of latter-day reverse chauvinist who just likes to imagine people with museum-quality good looks cooking me $45 entrees for free. Whatever, me and my Ethiopian-Swedish chef will be over in the dimly lit corner getting frisky with some aquavit.