It's Golden Globiez announcement day, which means that all the world's honor is bestowed upon Sandra Bullock + Co, while my favorites stand alone in the shadows. It pains me like a samurai sword hanging above a weird high schooler's bed going through my heart that Brie Larson wasn't given her own trophy on the spot, or even more, that they didn't instate a brand new award to honor Claire Danes' Year In Crying On-Camera.
But, that's child's play when it comes to the real snubs: The Future Dream Boyfriends of the Hollywood world, patiently waiting alongside Ryan Seacrest while he finishes his interview with Channing Tatum, or getting second billing behind the likes of Matthew McConaughey. It's time we toast to our boyfriends past while fete-ing our true loves of the future, and there's one in particular that's running through my brain like a Cranium 5K: the legend that is Bradley Whitford.
Good lord on a Triscut cracker, look at that classic hunk. He's like a sweaty '60s baseball player, posing in his retro-logo long sleeved baseball shirt on the back of a faded comic book. He's so freaking handsome that he could play God in a TV movie adaptation of The Ten Commandments and he'd still outshine Jesus' 8-pack, even with a gross, cottonball white man cascading down his lord robe.
Now, I'm sure there about four hundred of you guys who were real down with — nay, a Whit-ness to — his handsomeness on The West Wing, but as I stand unconvinced that politics can ever be entertaining, I ain't never seen it. But, that's not to say I haven't gotten my load of Braddy Boo during Primetime scheduling. I have been going deep on my favorite show of the season, Trophy Wife, on Twitter and Facebook and whoever comes close to mouth hole enough to hear about it, but I gotta stop spreading propoganda that I watch it for the amazing characters and hilarious plotlines. I mean, I do — Burtwheels? Elf Eyebrows? An Ellen Degeneres Halloween Costume?! — but the cherry on top of the laugh-so-hard-I'm-screaming sundae is most definitely B Dubs in thick-rimmed glasses. Cuz C'MON.
He's endlessly precious in it, and somehow toes the line between fun-dad and fun-dad-you'd-be-cool-with-dating-because-hey-he's-pretty-great. And of course when I say great, I mean a fox, because what a fucking fox. SUCH A FOX. People these days have lost their minds, passing up gems like BW. Seriously, the reigning studs are a gaggle of British boys with fake futuristic names like Niall? And Zayn!? ZAYN. That shit's a misspelling of Titanic's rude Billy's last name, not a primary for a tweeny bopper. You can have your Bradley Coopers and Brad Pitts who are really a hundred years old but look beautiful in movie lighting. Have 'em, have all of the Leos and the James Francos. I'm going to take Bradley Whits, who will inevitably roll into a Coffee Bean + Tea Leaf in my dreams in a baseball cap and one of those awful two-button cable-knit half-turtleneck sweaters and walk right into my heart and nether feminine region. (WHAT.)
I know, he's like three thousand years too old for me, 'specially since I can still technically say I've graduated from high school "recently", but if he could pull Malin Åkerman in pretend life, I'mma imagine he could be all mine in the flesh. And, if you're reading this far, looks like you already have, too.
A Virtual Man Orgy:
Your Future Dream Boyfriend: Michael B. Jordan
Your Future Dream Boyfriend: Nick Kroll
Your Future Dream Boyfriend: Chris Messina