All it took was a beard. And probably some kind words to Bret Hart. Also probably that black tank top. And probably the jeans and the look that if I met him in person he’d ignore me, then flick a cigarette in my direction, sending me into a downward spiral of love and stalking.
Long story short, this beard does things for my nether regions that Shawn’s stripper moves once did for me when I was thirteen, with a similar outcome as I still find myself confused and aroused and uncertain what to do with my body.
Nobody deserves it more. The Hitman is pure class.
PS I watched it and cried. For both happiness for Bret Hart and sadness for myself because I will never marry him.
My vagina called and it wants you to come over for some tea and Downton Abbey later today. She thinks the two of you could do beautiful #Fandangoing together. Okay, maybe not beautiful, maybe more nervous and awkward, and probably bumpy and sweaty, but it would certainly be adequate Fandangoing.
I am pretty sure that Dolph Ziggler wins everything ever because of his choice of wrestling attire.