Apparently Parker is his Bourne Identity, and Porter is his Bourne-Again Identity.
But however many Matt Damons there are, and whatever their ages may be, Huge Jackman is The Sexiest Man Alive, and finally People Magazine has thrown in the cumrag and agreed. And I'm sure the fact that Huge is co-starring with Nicole Kidman Cruise Urban (What a name! Talk about Urban renewal!) in a big-release film epic about going down Down Under (At last a film about something relatable!) titled Australia, opening this week, is just a serendipitous coincidence!
I have no idea what Australia is all about, the movie or the continent. (For the better easing of Sarah Palin's geographical bewilderment, unlike Africa, Australia is both a continent and a country. Is that simple enough for you, Sarah? No? Sorry darling. I just can't dumb this down any further.)
Since the only interesting person besides Little Huge (Talk about a contradiction in terms!) himself that Australia has ever turned out is Barry Humphries, I have to assume that in Australia, Nicole is playing a young, pre-Damehood Edna Everage, and Huge is playing a young, pre-Knighthood Les Patterson. It may help bewildered American stage audiences watching Barry Humphries's new stage show currently touring America, and getting their initial glimpse of Sir Les Patterson, who is touring America with Dame Edna for the first time. Huge Jackman is certainly one of the few actors, apart from Milton Berle or Forrest Tucker - both of whom are excessively dead, who is equipped to play Sir Les in an anatomically-correct manner without borrowing Mark Wahlberg's infamous prosthetic from Boogie Nights! (The medical reason for the deaths of Forrest and Milton was the small amount of blood left over for their brains, since 90% of it was required further south.)
I'm just wild about Huge. He can sing; he can dance; he can act. And he looks so great, he'd be a star even if he had no talent at all! With Huge, talent is a bonus!
Here are Huge and I, out in the blazing desert of the Australian outback where, by coincidence, I was out-in-back myself. Huge is showing his usual professional patience, kindness, and tolerance when mere proximity to him caused me to suddenly become so moist, I nearly drowned both of us.
But you mustn't believe that all my Jacked-man thoughts are filthy, even if 99% of them are, because he has a wholesome side. (His left side) Here we are indulging in good clean fun. Huge is bathing and I am snorkeling. (Again, we didn't need to use any water, as I provided all that moisture myself.)
There's a nasty rumor being spread about by a malicious gossipy insane woman who calls herself "Mrs. Huge Jackman," that Huge is married! Tragically, in order to avoid further provoking this mad woman's hostility, Huge pretends to go along with her romantic delusions, even going so far as to have lived with the madwoman for many years, to have gone through a legal wedding ceremony with her, and having had children with her. Huge is a True Gentleman, willing to go to such lengths to preserve this woman's romantic delusions when any one else would just get an injunction. Frankly, I think some tough love is called for. She needs to be institutionalized.
Huge says she is harmless (If she's within earshot, he claims he "loves" her. Poor terrified man.), but consider this: Huge, as I mentioned above, has gone so far as to sire children by this creature. (Artificially I'm sure, as he is saving it for me. When I tried to get into his pants during our last encounter, he turned me down, explaining that he was "Saving myself for you." Or did he say "Saving myself from you."? Well, it comes to the same thing.) Now what's wrong with having a few kiddies to sling over to the nanny and avoid? Normally nothing, but just look at his horrifying answer to an interviewer's question this week:
But I am interested in more than just Huge's magnificent tits. Being a woman, my eyes eventually wandered up from his Mount Everestian crotch, on over the greatest pecs on earth, to his face. And it's nice as well. So here he is, fully dressed, just so you can see that I'm not objectifying him. Huge Jackman: The Sexiest Man Alive!
Now this flogging, which is the last of my second year, as Friday will be the second anniversary of my beginning this flog, must turn to a sad topic. From The Sexiest Man Alive to The Funniest Man Dead: for today, at the tragically young, robbing-the-cradle age of 94, Irving Brecher died.
Born in the Bronx on January 17, 1914, Irving started out writing jokes for Milton Berle. he punched up, that is wrote uncredited jokes for, a little no-one-ever-saw-it obscure movie called The Wizard of Oz, before making his most amazing achievement, becoming the only person ever to write an entire Marx Brothers Movie alone. He wrote two, At The Circus and Go West, and became one of Groucho's lifelong closest friends. With Groucho he created The Life of Riley as a vehicle for Groucho, though Groucho never played it. (Rosemary DeCamp did appear in it. Years later, her daughter acted onstage with Little Dougie in a laugh riot called Oedipus the King, written by that ancient comedy scribe Sophocles, and Rosemary came to see them act together. She didn't bring Irving. Too bad. If ever there was a play that needed punching up with some jokes, it was Oedipus Rex.)
Here is Irving's own account of his first meeting with Groucho, at MGM in 1939:
"I said, 'Hello, Mr. Marx.' He said, 'Hello? That's supposed to be a funny line? Is this the guy who's supposed to write our movie?' I probably turned white.
"Then I said, 'Well, I saw you say hello in one of your movies, and I thought it was so funny I'd steal it and use it now.' Grouch smiled, then he bought me lunch," Brecher said.
Irving was co-nominated for an Oscar for co-writing Meet Me in St. Louis. Making this movie, Judy Garland fell in love with Vincente Minnelli, and Minnelli convinced himself that he was in love with Judy. (Well, what gay man wasn't in love with Judy?), so thanks in part to Irving Brecher, we have Liza! I assume Irving must have supported gay marriage, since Meet Me in St. Louis is responsible for a string of them.
He has a just-finished autobiography (I assume the last sentence, knocked out this morning, is either "And then I died." or "Aarrgghhh....") titled The Wicked Wit of the West, being published this January. I'll be reading it. I suggest you do too.