Take Me To Your Leader

It's not like I've never had a crush on a man. I spent a period of more than three years mooning over Brad Pitt, way back when we just thought he was a dimwitted boob who made the mistake of thinking all the attention being paid by Hollywood in general had something to do with his acting chops as much or more than poppy-outy abs and the ability to tan without burning. This of course was before we found out he maybe was a preening lynx given to long self-administered tongue baths of rationalization and pseudo-therapeutic bro-mides. So that love withered, but love of its type had dared speak its name and, like a golem made of chest hair and stubble, the words breathed it to life.

Hollywood stars in general don't really do it for me as far as dudes go. It's not that they're not attractive, it's just that I've been burned too many times finding out they're tiny. Like, how tall is The Rock? We can't say because he keeps starring in movies with Kevin Hart who is I think 3'6" tall. So by comparison, Dwayne Johnson looks like a monster, but so does literally everyone who has ever been on screen with Kevin Hart. Maybe Dwayne's Tom Cruise size, but due to strategic co-star placement, he looks like a Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon made entirely out of lean sausages. Everything we're meant to understand with our eyes is a lie.

Is it shallow of me to dismiss someone because of their height? Maybe. But most of them would reject me for not being in to the idea of a good, thorough e-meter auditing. My invisible parasite space ghost spirits make me who I am, man. I'm not letting you try to turn them into something weird. I reject you first.

I don't really have a "type" for the women I date. No, the thing I have for the women I date tends to be the setup for a crude joke about my penis.

I never thought I had a "type" for the men I'd crush on either, but over the last four or five months I'm starting to see a clearer picture. Broad shouldered, raven haired, an intensity about the eyes, wicked intellect, francophone, world leader... Yeah, like most people with a measurable libido, I thought Justin Trudeau was my guy for a while, but honestly, there was always something about him that just seemed a bit too conciliatory. Don't get me wrong, he's the full package, but it's probably just my vicious anti-Canadian racism that makes me dismiss him as too nice. He also seems fairly sexually normative. Where's the mystery, am I right?

Over these last couple of weeks, though, a dark-horse contender has stormed from the back of the pack to the runoff election for my beating, red-blood-shoving heart. Emmanuel Macron, where have you been tout ma vie? Dark features, Gallic swagger, married your high school drama advisor? That is, how the French say, a Yahtzee, mon ami. All the gayest parts of my heart are all yours.

And if the basics of the CV weren't good enough (and trust me, they fucking are) in the last few weeks we've seen the emergence of the first ever world leader who exists purely to troll another world leader. Not even as a side hobby to his normal duties,* I mean as his primary function on both the national and world stages. From crushing the tiny hands to a speech in English about the Paris climate change agreement Trump withdrew from... even his vaunted whatever-the-French-version-of-a-middle-finger is** to Vlad Putin's face was as much a shot at Trump than anything else. Emmanuel Macron was put on this earth to vex Donald Trump. Maybe the most easily vexed man ever, but even short work needs doing.

You guys: swoon, right? Totally swoon. Is it patriotic to prefer Monsieur le Président de la République française to the duly elected(ish) leader of the U.S. of A? In this case, yeah, I feel pretty strongly that is. When it comes to theoretical fantasies of man-on-man love, I reject protectionism for an arms-wide, welcoming, open globalist approach. And I mean very open.

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*This is actually fairly common. When not boning socialites and murdering Marilyn Monroe, it's well known that Jack Kennedy spent millions of taxpayer dollars to make Castro run around like a dope strictly for his own amusement. Don't even get me started on the exploding cigar gag.

**The French version of a middle finger is still a middle finger. They've got five just like us, no matter what you've heard. They're webbed of course, but still technically distinct digits.