But these three cubic feet of bone and blood and meat are all I love and know

Ahhh, harkening back to those halcyon days of weekly MEAT, with such a buffet of mens out there, I hesitated to repeat myself. However, I’m doing it today and my reasons are two-fold. First, it’s been so long since we’ve had meat that all bets are off. Second, look at this motherfucker.

Hugh's huge, bitches, and I've come to realize that I want massive or teensy most of all. A big, strapping hulk who I can fold myself into, or a pocket gay to toss and bat around like a cat's play toy. And if he can rock some aviators this hard, so be it. Seriously, if I was in Australia, I would orient my whole life toward the ability to be constantly, vigilantly scanning Bondi Beach for this very sight.And then work up my self-control to the level where I wouldn't then immediately drop my board shorts and start jackin' it right there. OK, yeah, that's just gross, but I never promised you a rose garden, chilluns. If I've shaved first, it's really not THAT disgusting anyway, but rest assured I'd be considerate of the innocent bystanders.

Or maybe not. Jesus Christ on a motherfuckin' cracker, he's a hunka man. And he's pretty much DILF INCARNATE, right?
::sigh::

PS It's not only MEAT FRIDAY, it's also HAIRCUT DAY, y'all! The excitement should be unmitigated, but instead it's tempered by the knowledge that I will not be getting my dose of Mr. Alan. He couldn't fit me in (heh) despite his best efforts (heh), so I'll be seeing a girl today. Completely lovely, she is (like Paris Hilton without the wonky eye or house arrest anklet), but can't we all agree that my haircuts should be solely under the purview of comely queers?