With news of natural disasters and at least tens of thousands of casualties, it seems a little strange to just keep blogging about the gorgeous men I'd like to slap in a camel clutch until they scream. Then again, I'm deeply cynical about all the attention and outpouring of concern that happens after a natural disaster, particularly in an impoverished country. The people who feel their heart strings tugged when an earthquake hits Haiti are usually the same people who couldn't locate Haiti on a map and have been blissfully uninterested in the abject poverty, crippling political corruption, and rampant spread of devastating disease in that country for decades.
So the cynical bastard I am, I'm going to reflect on a tragedy that's much more relevant to the spirit of what I write about day in and day out. I've gone on and on, I realize, about my unrequited lust with Michael C. Hall's ass. He was adorably hunky in Six Feet Under, but as Dexter he's beefed up even more.
When in season, I'm regularly watching each new episode of Dexter desperate for a shot of his amazingly round ass. There's never enough skin in Dexter, but I lap up every little crumb. Just a glimpse of Michael's gorgeous melons squeezed inside his strategically tight khakis makes me salivate like Pavlov's dog. I've well-established my lustful adoration of the most sympathetic serial killer ever.
So the news that Michael C. Hall is completing a round of treatment for Hodgkin's Lymphoma is quite a shock. I thought he looked sickly in his post-season 4 commentary on the finale with John Lithgow. I assumed perhaps he was just getting into character for a new project. But apparently, no, he's been undergoing treatment for the typically curable cancer for several months.
Between you and me, I find cancer a major buzz kill. It's capricious and devastating, and despite plenty of public knowledge that it isn't communicable, so many people still today stigmatize people with cancer. Cancer sucks and causes so much suffering, and not the hot and erotic kind of suffering unfortunately.
Still, if anyone can make cancer sexy, I think it's Michael C. Hall. Coping with the secondary devastation of chemo or not, I'd still tap that in a heartbeat. Hell, if he was game, I'd still slap on that camel clutch and deliver a heaping dose of the sort of suffering that makes life worth living in my book. I predict that Michael will kick lymphoma's ass and continue to make me swoon every step of the way. I'm just hoping that this brush with mortality inspires him to stop his teasing ways and let it all hang out. I'm praying for him to have a new lease on life that fills him with the spirit of generosity, moving him to share a glimpse of the entire gorgeous body that he was so gifted with. Truly and sincerely, I'm wishing him a speedy recovery and many more years of Michael C. Hall lustful worship ahead for us all.