Now, I can't make a toast at this online ladyboner party without first introducing why I'm hosting it. You see, until one month ago, Breaking Bad was just that thing people talk about all the time that I didn't give a damn about. You know, like the Giants. Or the government. Or when my boyfriend explains the reasoning behind his fantasy team trades.
Since then, I've flown on an inordinate amount of planes and have spent my free time adoring Marie's Barney-hued interiors, despising Hank's adoration for geodes, and most of all, falling completely in love with the wild manipulations, insane boundary-pushing and unbelievable luck of our favorite scientist, Walter White. And now, after five back-to-back-to-back seasons and a slow-dwindling stack of DVDs, my part-time viewing job and evening activity has been pulled away from me like an enormous junkyard magnet. (Wah, bitch.)
In mathematical terms, I've stared at Walt's face for over two full days this month, and because of it, I'm suffering from a bit of crush-worthy PTSD. Call it Stockholm Syndrome or just deflected attraction from Jesse's horrific wrist tattoo, but I'm big-time missing Walt, Faith Evans-style.
What am I, without canceling plans to watch him grow enraged at Pinkman's indiscretions? Without crowding over a laptop screen to watch him shovel money into an air duct? I can't handle these free-flying dust particles, and I definitely can't handle this.
I could sit here wondering who's been playing Flynn's health insurance since the family's self-employment of Season 4 — maybe the biggest easter egg of all was Obamacare? Or that one fan in particular is pretty much to thank for the perfect ending to the show? — but instead, I'll dive right in to a lineup of my favorite Walts, Bop magazine-style. It's the closest I'm going to get to a JTT pinup poster, but let's be real: that was my original intent for that garish artwork above.
Did I pay attention in chemistry class? Nope. Would I have if Walt was my teacher? Absolutely not. A man spewing fun facts about colors and elements while delighting over a Bunsen burner is even sadder than one getting his drug jollies out in a pair of briefs in the New Mexican desert.
I will say, though, that there is something wholly ironic about having my own chem teacher "kindly suggest" correct exam answers to those of us too preoccupied to actually study when I channeled unwavering concentration throughout the 60+ hours spent stockpiling these plot lines into my brain. Does that prove this mildly attractive incarnation more captivating than, say, a heavyset woman who may or may not have given us candy for all bank and calendar holidays? Sure, but this homie is by far the lowest rung on the hot-mometer, even with that luxurious head of Pantene-cleaned dad hair.
There's just too much to think about logistically in loving this sad, sorry man. Essentially, a chemistry teacher mimics the status of a chemistry nerd in scholarly social circles, only without the “it’s get better” promise of collegiate frat parties, inclusivity-promoting corporate HR representatives and a stylish girlfriend to take you to H&M and help figure this clothing the fuck out. He is marked in the Book of Life as a loser, and too much time has passed to change that. It's like those pre-teen magazine dating advice articles said: If you have to think about it, it's probably not a good fit. Guess that means the dream of shoving discounted Alexander Wang boots into a closet alongside Dockers and button-down Kohls shirts in long gone, but good thing I prefer, ahem, a different dubya-dubya.
You notice how no one ever snacks on this show? Of course not, because there were a thousand other important things going on, but this, this is all I notice. Sure, Walt gets two crumbled-up strips of bacon on each birthday and Junior for real chows more frozen french toast sticks than I did at midwestern overnight camp. But, for as many buckets of fry batter that Blue Sky was dunked into, I rarely got my fill of Sir Bryan chomping down on a crispy piece. Ain't no rest for the wicked, sure, but a man's gotta eat, am I right? (And I've tasted fried meatskin before so I know I'm right.) Maybe my business endeavors would thrive if I wasn't always concerned with what I’d be eating for second dessert (IT'S A THING OK), but then again, my Heisenberg-ian prospects lived and died with my friendship bracelet-making business circa '93. If those $3 string things didn't turn into soda-stacked car wash money in the beachside heat of suburban summer, I’m shit outta embroidery floss luck now.
Now, me? I'm not really into the Heisenberg thing. First of all, I think pork pie hats have their place in Jack The Ripper made-for-TV movies and Jack White's backing band. Nowhere else. Also, a wrinkled old white man exerting power of this magnitude just reminds me of a prison warden, and there's no way anyone's getting it on with a gent like that without it being less than consensual.
That being said, a love for early Kelly Rowland jams is a straight road to my cardiac arena, so I gotta give him mad cutie props for this one. Being a druglord's side piece is the first step in a swift death wish, so I can't help but keep in mind that honeying up to any man that can bellow "Yer damn right" in an abandoned desert will one day kill you, too. But, even 'til that day comes, I can only partially co-sign this as being my favorite of the Walts. Half of confidence is projecting your insecurities outward, and I really can’t take orders from someone who wears cotton slingshots for underwear and suede lace-up shoes. Get this man a pair of oxfords and then I'll reconsider.
Maybe my eggs are drying up faster than the end-of-day rush at the farmers market, but nothing is sweeter than good ol' Walty Blanco caring for baby Holly while making it rain paper gold. I know he's an anti-hero and devilish and whatnot, but I am totally still buying this it's-all-for-my-fambly business, especially because he could be doing anything else with this cash flow. Think about it — most kingpins have wild extravagances like strippers writhing around their office, diamond-encrusted retainers or car wheels that are silver and shiny like the accoutrement at The Four Seasons' high tea, just because they can. Walter can do anything with his millions, and instead, he tries to ensure that Junior will go to college. College?! COLLEGE. How about someone upgrades their flip cell to a fucking iPhone first before we start placing the money blame, mmkay? He's got money piled to the ceiling and all this poor man has splurged on is a couple of cars and a god damn hot water heater. Look at that laundry machine for christsake — if he's not fluff and folding his comforter twice a day, this man is really, truly in it to look out for his brood.
I once read that Britney Spears never wears the same pair of underwear twice, and my favorite W.W.'s definitely got access to more cash flow than that court-ordered crazy. Still, even with gallons of methylamine and stacks of cash, he hasn't even upgraded from Goodwill knitwear to some nice, sleek beige cashmere. He may be slowly losing his mind, but I can't help but find it, oh, somewhat adorable that he's a man of means. And murder. But let's just make like a slow girlfriend and only focus on the good qualities.
Bearded Walter White, you guys. Bearded Walter Whiiiiite. If I had a penis, I would not be able to scoot out from under my desk right now. (Thankfully, my desk is a blanket over my lap on a couch.) (And I don't have a penis, duh, that would make wearing leotards so annoying.)
Hit me up with that full order of Los Pollos with a side of babe sauce, 'cause it's on. Have you ever accidentally been attracted to someone without realizing they were homeless? Cool, we can plead the Fifth on responding to that one if your answer was a cold hard no, but circling back — what a fox, right? I like my men adjacent to hash browns like any other full-blooded American woman, sure, but that beard? And those specs? All up on that lumberjack steez. I'd say a half year nestled inside that cabin did wonders for him, but that would be insensitive, all chemotherapy considered. Still though, just try to convince me Hipster Walter White ain't better looking than Badger in a Men's Warehouse suit next to a Aaron Paul dumping his perfect wife for you. This homie’s my main love. Now, excuse me, while I shrink this photo down and try to shove it into one half of my locket.
So tell me — which Walty White is your personal sexual favorite?