First, I want you all to read Twistie’s excellent Mushrooms Caps I Will Not Stuff post. Go ahead, I’ll wait. Also, try NOT to sing the title to the tune of Camptown Races. Can’t do it, can you?
Now, personally I’ll stuff the hell out of a mushroom. “Things stuffed in things” is one of my favorite food groups and I’ll gladly mince, chop, pulse, scoop, stuff, broil and devour just about anything that the laws of physics and human decency will allow to be shoved in netherparts of any edible fungi. I won’t, however, do lawn maintenance.
I am, professionally and to a large extent personally, of the same mind as Henry Ford II who famously said “Never complain, never explain.” That little chestnut lives up there with “don’t take a No from someone who can’t give you a Yes” “Don’t believe your own press” and “If they don’t speak English it doesn’t count”
most importantly though is the chestnut that comes from my all-time favorite 24-hour girl The Lady Chablis who wrote in her book Hiding My Candy: The Autobiography of the Grand Empress of Savannah something along the lines of “If you don’t feed me, [redacted because this is a family blog but it’s not something Plumcake does on a first date, and I don’t mean buying a piano (although I won’t do that either)] me or pay my bills, you don’t get a say in my life.”
That being said, if today’s Monday Hotness Djimon Hounsou would like to have a say in my life, I’d be more than willing to let him apply in any of the three categories listed above. Except for paying my rent and feeding me. I’m an old-fashioned girl.
I’ve only ever seen him in one movie, the breathtaking “In America” where he stole the film as Mateo, the rage-bloodied painter dying of AIDS. I don’t watch a lot of movies; if I ‘m going to be in the dark for 108 minutes I’m either going to be sleeping or…uh…not sleeping, but I highly commend it to you all.
and while we’re on the subject may I just say:
Okay, parents? This. THIS is what I want to see if you’re going to show me pictures of your kids. Sure, I’ll ooh and all and pretend they don’t look like eggplants or Winston Churchill or whatever (uh, not YOUR kids of course) but at least have them held by a ridiculously hot guy who could probably bench press my Cadillac while quoting John Donne poems to me. Is that so much to ask?
Now, I am not a fan of the budgie-smuggler look (thanks Style Spy!) by any means, but seriously, come ON. That guy is a sculpture. A shiny, wang-y sculpture in boxer briefs (second only to the banana hammock in the annals of laughable men’s underwear) but a sculpture nonetheless.
and he doesn’t look half-bad with clothes on, either.