Instead of vauging out to the tube I actually read a book last night.
Well not so much a whole book but a decent fistful of chapters, and I’m proud to admit that it wasn’t all about butterflies or perky breasts or other ephemeral joys, instead concerning the life of a guy who worked in television and was desperate to be in films.
And not just any man but the man.
A man who knew his way around a haunted house, D.I.Y chainsaws for limbs, and a girl’s brassiere.
There’s just something about Bruce Campbell – or to be more specific, something about his chin that screams “give me some sugar baby”. And sure his character is sexist and stupid and is all chins as far as the eyes can see, but at the same time there’s something about his character (apart from his giant facial anomaly) that made you want to fall in his arms as he nonchalantly blew away zombies and the suited and overpaid dead. Nothing ever phases him, even when he is outnumbered, outclassed, and occupational heath and safety practices say that he should behave very differently, and yet because he doesn’t know how to spell P.C, he always succeeds in reaching the top of the festering pile with an admirer hugging his leg.
I wonder how much chin enhancements are going for these days?
Ms come-get-some M.
