I like Ryan Reynolds, and therefore can’t help but fear for his wellbeing. He doesn’t look like he used to. What became of the smiles and the frolicking? I’ve noticed, in recent months, that Marks & Spencer’s have been pryingly documenting Reynolds’ descent into depression, seemingly from afar. A long way from his performance as the party liaison Van Wilder, Reynolds now regularly wanders the streets, wearing nothing but Marks & Spencer’s clothing, with his fashionable yet unappealing girlfriend. His expression says it all.
Back in 2009, US authorities discovered a bottle of Viagra in Rush Limbaugh’s bag at Palm Beach International Airport. Rush’s need for such medication is hardly a surprise, of course. He is sixty-two, after all, and his protruding shoot of a penis must surely be sandwiched between his heavy sprawling gut, and the cushiony blubber that defines his pubic region. Every time he has sex, his pocket-sized tool has to arduously swim against the current of a lifetime’s worth of lard before it emerges visibly on the other side. And even then, it still might not be long enough to be used for penetration or, as I suspect, self-gratification.