On deserving a body like Stephen Amell and a Chia Britney:

I just found out who Stephen Amell is. 

He's this sexy piece of shit, that's who.

I can openly hate this guy for a lot of reasons and I will happily list them off now: He’s a Canadian actor, he’s white (so it’s not a hate crime), and he’s straight (so it’s not a hate crime). Normally I can go through a day or two without happening upon someone I can effortlessly conjure a deep hatred for. Since the end of the Kardashian and Jersey Shore era, it’s been relatively peaceful in the glands that produce my seething disdain. 

This is them right? Jersey whatever...

Those are real glands, I didn't make those up. They are somewhere between your belly button and that part under your balls that throbs when you do coke and ejaculate seven times onto a strangers chest like a sex crazed robot.

Yesterday was an exception to that normality. While searching for ways to get discount prices on flights to anywhere Vice has filmed people having orgies on psychedelic drugs, I found a picture.It’s the picture of a man with no shirt on, from the series "Green Arrow". I decided he doesn't deserve that body because that body is reserved for someone who isn't an obscure comic book character on cable television. 

Oh, eat a dick, Lou... You know what I meant.

Did he earn it? Sure, with the help of a talented personal trainer on set. Did Thomas Alva Edison earn his fortune? Sure, because Nicola Tesla gave him all the ideas and was too Serbian to understand that American citizenship involves violent lube-less corn holing by rich white guys.

This doesn't look like money... Where is that little Serbian queer?

If I had a personal trainer on the set of Green Arrow, I could have that body, it would suit me. Unfortunately we live in a world where I can’t decapitate Stephen Amell and replace his head with my own and strut around in a tank top like a freakish Buffalo Bill/Futurama crossover. 

The worst part is, if I could wear him like Lady Gaga wears meat, our skin tones would match up perfectly. I’d just look like a sexy ass Frankenstein’s monster. 

                                                                                 "Come hither, bitch, I'm rock hard like rigor mortis"

The matching skin tone thing is a huge selling point for me on Stephen Amells body, because I’m whiter than regular white people. If I resided in Finland, people would still think I lived in a cave for thirty years and had cancer.

Finland: Showing you the sexy side of bone marrow deficiency.

So now I hate this guy because I don’t have his personal trainer and can’t have this ripped ubermensch physique. It’s irritating because I’m not even sure he qualifies as a “D” list celebrity, he’d be like an “F” list celebrity, as in “who the fuck is Stephen Amell”. You had no idea this guy was a person until you read this. I’m working class; I know you can’t tell because of how couth and cultured I seem when dispensing literary mirth, but I am! 

Because I'm a tortured, aspiring writer.

How is an “F” list celebrity able to afford the benefits that make him look the way I want to look and I am not?

Isn’t he technically welfare class in movie celebrity terms? Even the shittiest celebrity can afford all the protein shakes, steroids and personal training that I can’t even dream about obtaining unless I turn to vaudevillian prostitution. You know, handstand hand jobs, cartwheel cum shots, back flip blow jobs and the like.

I'm a gigolo, always on the go

Every time I turn around, I got another show... 

That’s why I need a Chia Britney. Some of us have to work, Stephen Amell from "Green Arrow", does that even compute? You’re a sexy piece of shit Stephen Amell. Anyway when someone like me has a real job from which I return home, I want to be greeted properly. I want something in my living room that is both a novelty conversation item, as well as a way to remind me that all celebrities, from “A” list to the imaginary “F” list I just invented for fuck face Amell, eventually falls from grace. They go crazy, get fat, are Mel Gibson or die. 

    Will   Eventually   Become 

As comforting as that is. It isn't enough.

Enter Chia Britney.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Charged with Hit and Run in 2007.

Chia Britney was invented by someone who is right below genius level intellect but above Ben Stein. Here it is in its simplistic perfection. It’s a clay head that looks like Britney Spears, and it’s a Chia pet. That’s it! Isn't that fucking amazing? Maybe you aren't getting the subtle beauty of Chia Britney. 

There's way too much Mel Gibson in that Sinéad O'Connor.

Let’s say I come home and I’m feeling pretty good. The office slut offered me serious herpes by as asking me out for drinks. I stare at Chia Britney and blast “Womanizer” all over my fucking apartment because I’m sexy as hell and Chia Britney will celebrate that fact.

 

Conversely, let’s say I come home after a twelve year old boy felt me up on some form of public transit. Let’s say instead of reacting I just froze. I didn't know if this situation was my responsibility as an adult to like, push him away and explain I’m not looking for a jimmy dean sausage in my life right now. I wasn't sure if I’m allowed to hit him because he’s gay and twelve. So I’m all fucked up and feeling dis-empowered  I get home and weep in the shower. 

Once I step out feeling as refreshed as one can feel after getting the “Tokyo Handshake” from a preteen. Then what? That’s easy: I crank “Stronger” and shave Chia Britney’s head bald as a statement.

Something something Stronger... Something *mumble* Survivor...*mumble... 

Do you see? Do you see how brilliant Chia Britney is? YOU SHAVE HER FUCKING HEAD BECAUSE SHE’S A CHIA PET!!! Remember that? Remember K-Fed? 

Yo stop cryin'! Where the fuckin' Brawny towels at, B?

God, I’m so pumped right now. This is a product made by a person who knows the inner me like no woman who fingered me ever could. This person knew somewhere out there, someone was unhappy about their body, and supplied that lost, pale soul with Chia Britney. Long story short I’m over Stephen Amell but to do so I had to create an unhealthy interest with Britney Spears. That said at least I moved up to “B” list celebrity obsession.

No regrets showing in this pictures. None. Zero regrets.