There was a time when I detested George Clooney. “Oooooooooo, lookit me, I’m George Cloooooooooney, I’m so puuuuurrrrfect…”, blahblahblah. Goof.
- George Cloooooooooney and his perfect circle of friends
- George Cloooooooooney and his big fat stupid perfect handsomeness
- George Cloooooooooney and his never-miss-a-beat acting (argh, and his directing is even perfecter than his acting!)
- George Cloooooooooney and his shiny Oscar statuettes on his no-doubt-perfectly-dusted mantle (seriously, I’m not jealous…)
Now George Clooney is off the market.
And women everywhere are grieving.
And men can once again rejoice:
1. We no longer have to be compared to George Clooney.
2. We no longer have to hear about George Clooney.
Your Average-Everyday-Woman was never really delusional enough to think The Cloonmeister would one day sweep her off her feet after meeting her in the local supermarket while filming on location in her very own Average-Everyday-Hometown. But his eligibility — his unmarriedness — perpetuated the single most celebrity love-fantasy of the 21st century (that of the 20th century was owned by Warren Beatty, of course.)
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Now it’s our turn, to perpetuate a different kind of fantasy: that lonely women the-world-over will run to our arms, looking for comfort, needing consolation after having been “dumped” by The One and Only Mr. Perfect.
Honestly, ever since George Clooney started dating Amal Alamuddin, I’d heard nothing but some variation of the following:
“Well, at least she’s not a bimbo — so I guess I was right about him all along. Which only makes it worse.”
Then the marriage actually happened (It wasn’t all a bad dream! they cried), and there’s since been such gloom and doom from his Average-Everyday-“Exes” that men can only offer all the “sympathy” we can muster — which can be plenty, indeed.
And, hey, while we have you in our arms…
Dear George Clooney,
I don’t detest you anymore. In fact, I love you, George Clooney. And I love your wife even more.