Where Is My Sexy Parade?

It’s been over a week now and I’ve buried my discontent long enough. I would go as far as to say I am damn near cantankerous. It just sits there, everywhere, mocking me. In newsstands, book stores, websites, on Entertainment Tonight AND the Insider (that’s a straight hour). I could no longer hold back the flood gates of frustration. I had to know. How is it possible that, for the eleventh straight year of eligibility (although I was confirmed as a man by the Catholic Church at 15), have I been overlooked again for Sexiest Man Alive. Sure George Clooney won, I get it, I would be his man whore, but he’s already won before. Hell Richard Gere’s won twice. There is obviously very little thinking outside of the box going on in the editorial offices. Where’s the creativity? Are they just thumbing through Esquire and pointing when they see a splash page? Why tell people what they already perceive when they can be a voice of true authority?

I mean I could understand for the first few years of my youth. I was young and needed to be batted around a bit. In college, I was frequently covered in very un sexy paint stained clothing and rarely showered as much as I should, but I always cleaned up very sexily. So I needed to spend some time learning the ropes of sexy and paying my sexy dues. I was fine with that then, but now, even after all of my toil and preparation, it’s like they’re not even considering me. I have the hair, the eyes and my body isn’t gonna get any less fat. My time is now, I may never be sexier.

I need a real answer. After searching around a bit, using my sexy charm and calling in some favors, I finally got a number to an editor at People. Her assistant’s name was Barbara. Barbara had the cute and cordial accent of a girl from coal mining town, but I wasn’t disarmed. I was on a fact finding mission and immediately asked to speak to her boss. She said that my request, “was impossible,” and I knew it was crap. I should have held out but I just started in on her.

“Why haven’t I been considered for Sexiest Man Alive?” She then asked who I was and I told her. She said she’d never heard of me. I said why does that matter? She explained that you had to be famous to be Sexiest Man Alive. So I asked since when does being Alive have anything to do with being famous. Was she saying that my life was in balance with my Q rating? Or is anonymity like a malignant cancer? Would I live longer if I had starred in a movie with Susan Sarandon or Shaquille O’Neal? That’s when it became obvious that I was taking dead aim at Nick Nolte Mr. 1992, who is neither sexy nor alive. There’s been a distinct Weekend at Bernie’s vibe with him since Streisand denutted him in Prince of Tides. Did you also notice George Carlin started to suck right about that time? Also in POT. Then I listed past winners I was definitely more sexy then: the other being Ben Affleck.

I was too worked up to make sense. After taking a few breathes in the nearest black bodega bag, I laid back and thought of all the things I do have: like a very comfortable couch to lay back on. Then I apologized to Barbara. It wasn’t her fault, it was the editors, but next year I would prefer a phone call and left my number. I snapped my phone back into its folded rested position and took up my Play Station 2 controller. I felt, although no one could see me that I was very sexy at that very moment. Definitely sexier then Affleck and the world was just a phone call from finding out.