Honorary Hott of the Month: Rebecca Hall
My new stalking obsession for 2009: actress Rebecca Hall.
Having first lusted over her freckled brunette luscious ball of boobie wax in Vicky Christina Barcelona and again yesterday in Frost/Nixon, Hall is the latest librarian glasses wearing buttercup of sunset rainbow melted Skittles in a Frying Pan delight to enter my subconscious and make me want to build a castle out of straw, then set it afire to protest a mortal universe.
While she had little more to do than stand there and look pretty in Hollywood Hack Ron Howard’s first decent film since the genius that was Gung Ho, she still fired up my loins like a flamethrowing midget who torched my pajamas while slipping on a banana peel.
How he got into my pajamas, I’ll never know.
Heh. I said pajamas.
You better not start dating a Hollywood douchemonkey, Ms. Hall. For I am watching. Should you end up with a Seacrest or a Mayer, I will mock. From a safe distance. And then shake my fist in outrage. Before sighing. And drinking a Mr. Pibb.
