Enemies List favorite Mara Marini, who makes a welcome return to these pages after a long hiatus. Ms. Marini expanded her media empire by starting a new column on the She Knows Entertainment website called Mara Marini Weighs In in which she asks the burning question "Who's hotter?" and pits two hunky celebrities against each other in the sadistic arena of public opinion. The goal is that the winning beefcake is held aloft as a masculine god to be worshipped by the adoring masses and the loser tossed aside as a castrated piece of roadkill squashed on the highway of popular culture. Such is the allure of Ms. Marini's siren song that even I cast a vote in the initial competition, with my choice Man of Steel star Henry Cavill decimating muscle-bound heartthrob Channing Tatum for the crown. But after the dust had settled and Mr. Tatum's bones were thrown to the hungry lions I began to wonder in a head-to-head contest, who would be considered hotter; Ms. Marini or myself? At first glance, the answer would seem obvious: with my international popularity, smoldering good looks and the mystique surrounding my tragically misshapen genitalia, I would be the winner of the race in a careless saunter. But after submitting the question to my operatives (some of whom are male heterosexuals), I was surprised to discover that Ms. Marini actually appeared to have a small fraction of support in the query (by my count she had 5% of the total vote with a 95% margin of error). Upon reflection, I realized that this outcome made some sense since not only might my physical perfection and glittering personality seem intimidating to one or two insecure individuals that they might not feel worthy of being sexually attracted to me, but I am forced to grudgingly admit that after studying two or three thousand of the candid photographs of Mr. Marini stored in my personal archives that she has a personal quality or two that a few twisted freaks might consider to be even more desirable than mine. So I put the question to my readers: who do you find hotter, Mara Marini or Jonny M? Only when we have the answers to the big questions can we even hope to come together as a society.
My mentee Amy Ball, who is in the midst of shooting the short film Belly Flop that has been chronicled on these pages. I was initially a supporter of Ms. Ball's artistic endeavors until this week, when she posted on the social network "One last ask: a larger sized backyard in the valley with a jungle gym, swing set OR trampoline. Any will do. We are looking to film there for four hours Saturday morning." It was only then I realized what was actually going on because I remembered a friend of mine had purchased a house in the area in which she is shooting. When he took possession of the place and inspected the grounds, he found an unnerving number of items which forced him to conclude that the backyard of his new family home had previously served as the set for pornographic films. So what I thought was a family-friendly comedy short scripted by the oh-so-innocent Ms. Ball is obviously something far seamier. While it is true that the passage of the hated Proposition B has curtailed the production of hardcore adult films in the Los Angeles area, it's clear to me (without bothering to try to back these suspicions up by collecting any facts) that committed pornographers like Ms. Ball are still insistent on making their smut within the familiar confines of Los Angeles County. I have no objection to that but I do mind that she cast said smut – especially one that requires the use of a jungle gym, swing set or trampoline – without finding a part for me. So I intend to show up on her set tomorrow morning clad in my fully fluffed naked magnificence and demand that she enlist my talents as an actor. Decades of alcohol abuse have rendered me unable to memorize dialogue but once she sees what I can do on that trampoline, she's going to want to make me a star.
Babies. I recently attended the birthday party of my friend Tawdry Baubles where the tradition of the birthday girl being the center of attention was cast aside when a couple of Ms. Baubles' acquaintance had the lack of consideration to show up with their ten week-old toddler in tow. This meant that Ms. Baubles had to stand discarded in the shadows as everyone in attendance oohed and ahhed over the little bundle of joy, despite the fact that he did nothing more than lay around drooling while contributing nothing of interest to the conversation, all the while sucking down a vile liquid out of a plastic bottle and occasionally pooping himself. This child held the partygoers in rapt attention while I was summarily chastised for behaving in exactly the same way. It forced me to realize that babies are given a blanket pass by civilization until they are at an age when they begin developing a rudimentary personality, at which time they become the recipients of a societal FU that continues to snowball until they are shoveled into their graves. I say that babies aren't deserving of such a hostility latency period because it's virtually a certainty that the sweet, innocent infant you're holding in your arms now is going to develop into somebody you can't stand within the span of a few years. If you don't believe me, scroll your mouse over the picture of the sweetikins on the left who looks so adorable and see who he grew up to be. I think you'll see my point that just because someone is a baby doesn't mean that he's not irritating as hell.
Thursday's lunch. Every day for lunch I make a healthy salad that has as its base fresh, delicious spring mix from a prominent warehouse store. Yesterday when I emptied some of the tasty greens into my salad bowl, I found some additional protein: a dead frog. I initially assumed that the frog's presence was due to some lackadaisical quality inspection by the third world laborers who harvest the foliage for my nutrition, then I began to wonder what the frog's dire situation was that it was willing to risk death hidden in a box of organic baby lettuces, spinach and arugula to find life in a new part of the country. I looked at the packaging that the spring mix came from and saw that it was a product of Santa Maria, California, which until yesterday I had never realized was an oppressive political regime for frogs. I only hope that any future frogs who enter my part of the world to escape Santa Maria's repression will remember the sacrifices of this tiny toad and say a prayer for him as they breathe the sweet air of freedom.
Ashton Kutcher, who made quite a splash on the social network by accepting the prestigious Teen Choice Award and sagely advising his young audience that the sexiest thing in the entire world is being really smart, thoughtful and generous, while "everything else is just crap". This sentiment got him a lot of kudos from the professional circus freaks who commented on Facebook, but I wondered if it would stand up to scientific examination. So since we began this week's list with a "Who's Hotter" pole, I'm going to end it with another pitting Ada E. Yonath against my Facebook friend Melinda Marie. Dr. Yonath won the 2009 Nobel Prize for Chemistry for her studies of the structure and function of the ribosome, which made tremendous strides forward in the development of antibiotics. Since Dr. Yonath's work not only won her the Nobel Prize but was beneficial to humanity when I have no doubt she could have made a lot more money if she'd followed a medical career in breast augmentation, I think it's safe to say that she is smart, thoughtful and generous. Ms. Marie on the other hand appears to possess an I.Q. in the mid 80's range (based on her Facebook posts anyway) but she looks smokin' hot in a bikini. You settle if Mr. Kutcher is right or not based on these two examples. May the sexiest woman win.
