Number One?
Gilbert Gottfried. Not a surprise.
Number Six?
Dr. Phil. This was not exactly a shocker, either.
And then, at number eighty-four... my heart skipped a beat. It was ME!
DAVE MIX.
It's clear to me now that the editorial staff at The Phoenix have made some sort of terrible mistake. Look at those eyes - gently upturned as if to say "Hold me." The form - as if cut from the finest Corinthian marble. Now, I'm the first to admit that perhaps I don't fit into the trendy definition of sexy. I suppose my "urban outdoorsman" look doesn't fit in with the twenty-first century's androgynous heroin chic beauty ideal. I guess my rough, unkempt and dangerous appeal might frighten some women, and certainly some men. I suppose I may harken back to the golden age of Hollywood, when men were men, and dames were dames.
You know what, world? You can keep your pretty boy Jon Secadas and your delicate Orlando Blooms!
Give me the Cary Grants, the John Waynes, the Humphrey Bogarts of the world!
Give me the DAVE MIXES, damnit.
The entire article is here, if you really want to see it.
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