The ever kickass Miss Boo propped up this meme-thing-a-mabob, and like any uninspired impressionable little imp, here I am taking the ‘tag’. (You can therefore point your accusatory finger at her for today’s rubbish. Or, you know, at your computer off-button. Either/or.)
It should be noted that it was a little hard for me to whip this up as I was unsure what, specifically, the requirements are. What constitutes a truly worthy shameful crush, I wisely wondered. Is it ugliness? A terrible hidden rash? A foul character? Weird hair? Fiendish sexual deprivation? Incomprehensible sense of immorality? The problem is, isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder? And to the pits of hell all these socially acceptable conventions of beauty and attractiveness? With such a visceral belief entrenched in me, I was unable to remember being really embarrassed by any girlish crushes I have had. I mean, crushes are embarrassing enough in and of themselves, what does it matter if they are embodied by an Apollo or a Quasimodo then?...
Caught in the middle of all these existentially important questions, I stumbled to the kitchen for a little emotionally comforting sugar-coated-almond-twirly-pastry when, suddenly, it dawned on me. Slowly, like a hidden dirty secret one had frantically tried to bury in the darkest depths of the unconscious, hoping it will never resurface again. My shameful secret. My burned mark. My Wrongest Crush Evah.
Oh, but how could I ever admit to... that, I asked myself. This surely trespasses into Too Much Information territory! It’s just... so revolting, it might shun the most liberal of misguided web wanderers who've somehow haphazardly hit upon this page, and send them into such virtual shock they might get up and – *gasps* – GO OUTSIDE! DO I REALLY WANT THAT ON MY CONSCIENCE?!
Luckily, I slapped my silly little self out of it and figured, "bop". Besides, isn't this why I am wimpingly writing anonymously anyway? (Mouahahahahaha!) So, without further fanfare, here is my TOP TEN WRONGEST CRUSHES: A Countdown Photo Essay of Shame. (You know, to ease the fall.)
NUMBER 10 (2 of 2): Romain Gary.
In all honesty, I am not shameful one itty bit about this crush. Yes, he is older. Yes, he is a womanizer. Yes, he is dead. A quick look at him wouldn’t even conjure the most mundane fantasy a horny nymphomaniac might have (especially in his younger days), but… blink again, and you can see him in the fall of his years. Through those eyes. Sorrowfully yearning. That hair. Ash & snow covered. That look. Keen like a tender dictator, piercing like a boyish gentleman. And - oh my beating heart! - those words! Those words of love, of love, of Love….
I don’t care if it is inappropriate, he can furrow his brow through my deepest bowels if he had ever cared to write a sci-fi novel for me to travel back in time. Even just once. Yes, I said it and I’m not taking it back!
NUMBER 10 (1 of 2): Conan O’Brien.
Again, there is no shame here. Per se... I’m sure I’ve professed more than once or fifty times my undying love for this ginormous chunky white pasty clay of a man. I used to stay late at night in the early days of my college years, watching him and falling off the couch laughing. Sure, I tend to become slightly insane[er] in the wee hours of the morning where I am tired and desperately lacking oxygen, but man, that dude pierces right through my heart with every awkward movement, every marionette strings cut, every wonderfully retarded stint. It’s that entire Lanky/Gangly/Nerdy Thing he so magnificently wears. It’s simple brilliance in its basest form, and I lovitt! And sweet Jesus, that hair! Phwar! Miaorwww!
NUMBER 9: Tim Roth.
Yeah… Mister Orange himself. Man, I fell hard for him. Even through his despicable character in Rob Roy. It’s that Lanky/Gangly/Nerdy Thing again going for him, but with a sharp edge to it. A pipsqueak so bullied it turned to the dark side and you don’t know what to expect anymore. That kind of underdog uppercut. Terribly sexy, if must say so myself, even though I don’t usually go for bad boys in my non-virtual, less-shameful real life. (No, thank you, Internet!)
NUMBER 8: Mike Myers. Nauseatingly patriotic, gushingly cutesy and PC-ly nice – in the worst of ways. But, aww, just look at him! You just know he is the kindest loving adorable guy who’d treat you like an awesomely sweet goddess, teasing you in the kinkiest of ways whilst making you giggle as if you were a kid again and, really, what’s not to love about that?
I’d just prolly change his name though, as it may or may not used to cause some disturbing confusion for me growing up as I once wondered if the Halloween series were perhaps somehow based on him. (Um. Right. Blurred line between fiction and reality - check.)
When it comes to physical beauty, I’m rather easy to please. Seriously. Usually though, when I can be caught roaming Out There, most guys I’ve managed to notice when I occasionally come out from my self-absorbed daze for air leave me either indifferent or, at worse, slightly displeased. Nothing beyond that, really. It might come across as snootiness, or coldness, but the truth is I just can’t be bothered. And I’m kinda lazy like that, and… bah. I just can’t be bothered. It's also a mathematical thing – it all converges towards the middle, doesn’t it, physical beauty. To the Average Joes. So it takes something else, as previous list-makers have shown, to hit me out from my narcissistic fog and grab my [figurative] balls. Which is, as previous list-makers have shown, pretty easy to do. Ahem.
But once in a while, there are the few extremes that frivolously pop up, like, say, Christian Bale for instance.
And then, every so often, at the other far-end of the spectrum, there is such a gaggingly weird specimen that rises above all other suddenly terribly pedestrian-in-comparison Joes to settle the fine balance. Like Marc Labrèche.
And on Heavens's nectars I swear, deep down inside, if I had a choice, I’d pick the latter as my eternal mate in a heartbeat (unless Christian Bale reveals himself as a brilliantly crazy witty & wickedly funny guy with the oddest expressions & self-effacing integrity. Either/or.) Monsieur Labrèche, you see, is one of the few, if not only, comedian that can do absolutely no wrong in my head. And it’s not that he’d never been in some unwatchable work (Matusalem 1 AND 2 anyone?), but he’s so… normal about it, eh! He doesn’t take himself so seriously and always distortedly heartfelt silly and frank about it all! And a Québecois to boot! Right on, bébé! And while he may look like a toad, you somehow get a feeling he may also be a real lion in the sack – roaaaar!...
What if you closed your eyes?
Ahem. Carry on, then.
NUMBER 6: John Malkovich.
Now see, I’ve never been a really big fan of his. He is a very good actor (le Vicomte de Valmont anyone?), but many of his roles left you a bit more than bewilderingly turned off, to say the least (The Man in the Iron Mask anyone?). And I’ve always thought he might be on the gay side, for some reason (even though I seem to have the “worst gaydar”, as a dear friend have once mentioned *hiss*).
The man unsettles me, okay? And it’s that unsettling feeling that, with those eyes - sometimes pitiable, sometimes goofy and/or insane, always disdainful - well, leaves me slightly short-winded, is all.
Oh, and he speaks French. Albeit with a distracting accent, but with enough cynicism and arrogance to make me swoon. On the inside. Obviously.
NUMBER 5: Bart Simpson.
What, gotta problem with that? So what if he’s a cartoon perpetually stuck at being a 10-year-old mischievous brat with sickening complexion? He’s jusshokiute!
Yes, I think Bart Simpson is unbearably cute, and despite that obnoxious exterior, he has proven more than once to be a loving kid filled with good intentions and a naïve blinded hope only unruly little shitters have. Oh if I were a four-fingered 10-year-old two-dimensional yellow lass, I’d stalk his perky lil’ bum silly! Uh-huh!
NUMBER 4: Colin Farrel.
Dirty ill-mannered yesterday Pretty-‘It’-Boy. And the idea that there are hordes of frantic young starlets swooning and pining over his Hollywoodian manly good looks makes it, unfortunately, even more embarrassing, if I were to be condescendingly honest. And he looks like he would smell of whiskey and tar over a five-day-old fermented sweat.
However, he also looks like he’d be a riot to hang out with, laughing and being vulgarly uninhibited, drinking and singing awful songs you don't know any words to until the the break of dawn, where he’d finally take you home and make sweet ravenous sex to you (or any other way you like it). ‘Cause he just seems to be nice like that.
Good god, this is so wrong I can’t even bring myself to believe it! For the love of all that is holy, HE IS NOT EVEN LEGAL! And Harry Goddamned Potter, in the name of Dumblefreakingdore! And I don’t even read the goddamned books - I only watch the goddamned movies because I’m the kind of sad little girl who likes dorky wizardy action stuff like that, which, by the way, is exactly what got me into trouble in the first place as that sad little girl is exactly the sort of girl who would fall for a Lanky/Gangly/Nerdy type such as young Radcliff, who - for the honour of Greyskull! - just so happens to be delightfully charming with a great jaw-line to boot! Gah!
I just caught an interview of his on The Tonight Show recently and – oh, my swooning teenage heart! – he is so endearingly cute! Charmingly nervous and self-deprecating, he suddenly turned to Jay Leno who had asked him at one point if he’s the type of guy who’d spend a lot of “dough” for his birthday, and confusedly replied in a darling English accent “Um, do you mean like cookie dough to make a lot of cookies?” *hands over heart* Dear lord, kill me why don’t you! And have you seen him recently?! Of course you have! Sweet lord, I feel so DIRTY!
GOOD GOD! Stop it! STOP IT!!
*quivers shamefully in a dark corner*
NUMBER 2: Pablo Picasso.
From illegally innocent little geek to misogynistic old bastard. (I know, I’m like a snowflake like that.) It’s the whole vicious, hateful, emotionally manipulative, pretentious sort of ponce with an exaggerated self-importance and visions of grandeur that somehow, in his [and his arsekissing posse's] distorted fucked up mind, give him the right to treat everyone else like shite that I have a particular distaste for. Which is why it pains me – pains me! – to admit my hots for him. *rolls eyes* But, goodness gracious, what unyielding belief in the idea that Art can (and did!) change the world as we saw it in a time when we needed most. There were of course others who marched to the same beat (and subjectively brought a more interesting & appealing execution, such as Duchamp, whom I unabashedly adore)... But there is a distinctive magnanimous force behind Picasso’s work, I think, in his will, that enabled him to eradicate whatever had come before him, be it good or bad, and to make anew. With something as simple as the swift of a paint stroke.
Or a look from those eyes….
It’s disarming me as I simply take a furtive sip from it, g'dammit.
He’s the kind of asshole with whom I’d imagine having an end-of-the-world row only to shag like transcendental dogs in the stormy midst of it on any surface there is.
That’s right. You read it. Now, let us never speak of this again.
... Unless you prefer we not talk of … MY WRONGEST CRUSH NUMBER 1! *echoes-choes-ozes-ozes-oes*
I know! I KNOW!!! I just know next to nil about politics - even less British politics - and yet despite being aware of his vile pact with the Devil (and, apparently, his responsibility in the complete collapse of the British health, educational and transport system *shrugs vacantly*), he still strikes me somehow as a nice posh English man, yeah? With good stature & height, and a nice smile, and a clean voice, and an unexpected sense of humour, really (relatively? for politicians, anyway (god, a politicican...)), and well, he’s kinda 'dashing', is he not?... It’s just that every time I see him on the news, I just get a little flustered, and think, “Well, you know, maybe he is just trying to become the connecting link, to divert the evil blows of Satan upon the self-righteous minions of the world, and somehow believed he can persuade the Horned-One to fuck up Pluto instead, or something, and in failing that (or rather after witnessing the poor rock being stripped from its planetary status), tried to soften the fucking up of Earth in the smallest possible doses, but then it all went terribly wrong, ‘cause, dude, you just don’t mess with Satan, okay?”, so therefore he’s really but a victim like the rest of us in this entire terrible ordeal, right? RIGHT?!... And then he laughs that horsy laugh of his, and I just think, “Aw, how bad can he really be, that poor misguided lanky chap!”...
Oh, good bloody CHRISSST! I can’t believe I am EXCUSING this unfathomable abomination! What the hell is WRONG with me?!?
Oh, please, turn away! Divert your nanobitty liquid-crystal gaze from me as I dig a hole for myself!...
Or... you know... lend yourself to the awful exercise...? To make me feel better, yes? Hullo?...
*falls to the ground wailing*
*claws at cheekst*