Mike and I have separate lists of unattainable celebrities with whom we are given carte blanche to hook up if said unattainable celebs are suddenly attainable and are all, “The afterparty’s at my body!”
I’ve been pretty open with Mike about who has earned coveted spots on my list–men like Justin Timberlake (shut up), LOST’s Sawyer, and Bear Grylls (I’d like to change his show to Mona vs. Wild and he has to save me but honestly, I really don’t want to be stranded on the tundra, instead I’d like to dial 1-900-Mix-A-Lot and kick them nasty thoughts, if you know what I mean. Bear would answer and then whisper dirty stuff telephonically like, “Oh yeah, you’re dehydrated in the Sahara but I’ve brought you some moist camel innards.” HOT!).
I don’t really care to hear Mike’s list because they house the women Mike grew up with such as turn-of-the-century tart Susan B. Anthony. “B” is really short for “Booty,” and even that had to be abbreviated because her full name–“Susan Dance Too Much Booty in the Pants Anthony”–could not fit on a coin.