A Peek Back In Time: Still Crazy After All These Years

You know, I wasn’t always depraved and deranged.

Okay, that’s probably untrue. Let me re-state.

You know, I wasn’t always publicly depraved and deranged.

But as I’ve gotten older, I have either come to accept myself more, or else I just don’t give a damn. The genesis and inevitable downward spiral of my mental illness is far too complicated and boring to trace. And could I track it, even if I tried with all 100% of my brainium? 

But some things I can trace. A penchant for shared public lewdness and drooling, for one.

Email and interwebz has probably done more to reduce office productivity than anything since the introduction of indoor plumbing. It allows one not only to waste one’s own time, but to enjoin others in your slack ass ways of misbehaving. 

One day at work, some of the crew and I were discussing, you guessed it, Hot Mens. During this discussion, I had an epiphany. 

Hot Mens, much like NCAA teams, horse breeds, and hell, have brackets. Or divisions. I realized that during our conversation I had identified a heretofore Unrecognized Bracket in the Hot Mens listings: Ichabod Crane Hotties.

Eager to share my discovery of this, complete with pictorial proof, and desirous of just spreading beauty in general, I rushed back to my office. Whilst there I composed what, until now, was an email phenom restricted to the folks on my contacts list.

But like Typhoid Mary, I want to share what I’ve got with the world. After the recent Spaderpalooza and the barrage of Brody sightings /Stella Artois ad, I thought it might be instructive for my gentle readers to reveal the incident that sort of started it all.

So I have recreated that initial email here, for you. Because caring is sharing. There may be solace or insane anger in the fact that for some of you, your tax dollars indirectly paid for the original exercise.

So, with that preamble, I give ye:

ICHABOD CRANE HOTTIES

^{(AND OTHERS)}

Hi, I’m Jeff Goldblum. I sort of re-invented this category after Jimmy Stewart left the scene. Except that I’m way more Ichabod-y than Stewart. Actually a little hotter, as well. Don’t be fooled by my young, spoiled, 1980’s stockbroker look here. Though I can put on the glam, can’t I?

Well, here I am again. Quirky, but cute, right? Actually, I’m sort of disturbingly beautiful in that top shot. You’re starting to feel my vibe, right? 

 So, the hotness thing. I mentioned that, right?

Yeah, I’ll put on some muscle for a film and go shirtless. But only if it supports the artistic integrity of the film, you know? That’s really noble, upstanding sweat on my pecs there. Those are seriously method abs. Really.

 

This one’s for Svetlana. Who even digs me in blue. True hotness knows no racial boundaries. Or species boundaries, I guess. 

 Hi, I’m Dougray Scott. I can wear the hell out of a tailored shirt. My face is a little too rough to be pretty, even though I don’t qualify as an ICH. My hair is great though. I’m pretty much dead sexy. Just FYI.

Zach Quinto here. Proof that the younger generation has a chance at achieving some ICH role models. I’m pretty sure my fate was sealed when I played Spock in the Star Trek reboot. I made that bowl cut look smoking. I’m a little afraid Hawkeye might be stalking me, so I have to wear my uber nerd glasses to keep my vision sharp. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to help reduce my hotness or stalkability. Not much does. Damn.

See what I mean? If I go missing, you know who to talk to.

Some people won’t understand the appeal of an ICH. But no such mystery here, mates. Just a wicked fine Australian with a secret geek/nerd gene that somehow didn’t affect my looks. Included for Svetlana. And hotness in general.

Hey ladies, Gerry here. We’re definitely taking a detour from classic ICH. But don’t let my ridiculous good looks fool you. Inside this scruffy chest beats the heart of a true dork. And that is like catnip to Hawkeye. Sweet, crack-cocaine laced catnip. 

Hawkeye also doesn’t mind when I express my feminine side. Guyliner and hair extensions? Cool. Running around in leather skirts? Not fazed a bit. In fact, Hawk is always so supportive, pushing me towards exploring my boundaries. So selfless. Um, does anybody know if it’s true that I should be going commando in this outfit? 

Hi, I’m Adrien Brody.

I’m the current god-king of the Ichabod Crane Hotties. You can call me A-Brods, Snookums, or what most girls end up saying a lot around me, “Omygod - pleasedon’tstop - i’mgonnadie - fromthisyesyesyesyes.” You know, whatever works for you.

How does one get to be god-king? Is it my brooding, ethnically vague good looks? My sometimes winsome smile?

Maybe it’s my soulful eyes and hangdog expression. The incredible schnozz? Or perhaps you like your men lanky and lithe. It is, after all, the Ichabod Crane Hottie division we are talking about here.

Though, like my predecessors, I will undergo a grueling, horrific transformation if the role requires that kind of honest, raw truth.

I’ll even get muddy and kill aliens. It’s all about the craft, you know? I’d take this time to mention I’m also of Jewish descent, but I really don’t want to have to take out a restraining order on Hawkeye. Chances are Hawk’s out there right now, having an attack of the vapors just talking about my nose.

If you are thinking “Having two such hot, attractive objects in such close proximity to each other is actually skirting the plausibilities of physics as we know it,” then you are right. You are also about to burst into flames.

RDJ: Look, A-Brods, I dig you and all. But we are about to cause a serious cosmic disturbance.

Adrien: I feel ya, man. I almost created a rift in the space time continuum with Gerry Butler at a Lakers game last week.

RDJ: Being hot is hard.

Adrien: Word, my brother. Word.

HoYay!:

It’s not just for San Francisco anymore.

Weighing in with the final word on ICH:

I’m Sam Motherfucking Waterston. 

I basically rule the world. The second coming of Christ will look a lot like my amazing hair. Brody may have out-nosed me…..but nothing’s been proven yet. Peace out, bitches.