That 00s Hott
Having finally seen Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I have a question.
When, exactly, did Mila Kunis make the transition from annoying sitcom teenager to voraciously hot creature of erotic otherness that I would cut out my own pancreas and sell it to Chilean merchants just for the chance to get hung up on by her personal assistant? Who then threatened me with a restraining order?
Geez, like it’s inappropriate to suckle Mila Kunis’s garbage cans outside her Brentwood apartment at 2am. Please. Who makes those rules.
I’m hestitant to call out the Culkin for being scrote. He’s had a bumpy ride post-pubescence and generally doesn’t seem too bad. He’s certainly not as annoying as the white sunglassed Yeti that Natalie Portman’s dating.
But since Mila is my latest Semitic librarian fantasy obsession, The Culk’s gotta take his lumps in the process.
I would study Freud by candlelight in Vienna just to better understand the schism in my conception of self if it meant I could paw Mila’s boobies like a dachshund on goofballs.
I would fly to small countries with confusing names near Russia and track down Mila’s diasporic distant cousins just to explain to them why it’s not necessarily inappropriate to nibble on her ankles with the quaking double-take of a young Don Knotts after seeing the Ghost.
