UPDATED BELOW! 

Okay, so it’s Friday night and by now you should have a drink or two in ya (if you drink).  I think it’s time to take this conversation south.  Way south.  

I think all of us know what I’m talking about when I ask you who your Bad Crush is.  It’s that person out there who, for whatever reason, lights your fire, but who you know in real life you would probably cross the street to get away from.  The person who if by some freak mischance you actually hooked up with, you might not necessarily tell your friends about.  Someone completely unlikely.  Someone from a world entirely different to your own.

I used to know this biker dude named Frank.  He was built like two Henry Rollins-es standing on each other’s shoulders.  A wall of tattoos and bits of metal.  I think I actually saw him wear parts of his motorcycle as clothing.  He was totally enamored with one of the women on the Weather Channel.  I can’t remember her name now, but she was this petite dark haired woman, nothing special to your average viewer, I suppose, but she just melted Frank’s butter.  He would sit there on the couch and just wait for her to come back on.

Then you’d ask him what the weather was going to do and he would look at you like a dog hearing a high-pitched sound, "The weather?"

"Yeah, Frank, you’re watching the Weather Channel.  What’s the weather going to do?"

"Aw, I dunno.  Gonna be hot, I guess."

I knew this kind of empty-headed gay boy named Brandon.  Really.  A mind entirely unencumbered by facts, details, or ideas of any kind.  He could discuss the relative merits of Madonna or Mariah Carey’s latest albums and accompanying photo shoots, but beyond that, he was just a lot of hair gel and a pair of Banana Republic khakis.

But he looooooooved Benjamin Netanyahu.  Knew absolutely nothing about the Middle East.  Couldn’t tell you Gaza from Giza from Qatar, but if the news was on and he saw Benjamin, he made everyone in the room shut up so he could listen.  The Newsweek with Netanyahu on the cover disappeared into Brandon’s room and never returned.

And then there was my friend Michelle, a sweet little clarinet-playing lesbian girl from a big noisy Greek family.  Michelle always ate with her napkin in her lap, always wore lipstick, never stayed out past midnight, and practiced the clarinet from five to eight hours a day.

Michelle went absolutely berserk over Courtney Love. 

I never understood it, either.

And I guess by now you all realize where this conversation is headed.  I’m going to tell you about my Bad Crush.

Sigh.

I have fought this for as long as I can, but clearly I am helpless in its thrall.  It almost sickens me to tell you all this.

 oh! Johnny...

Johnny Freakin’ Knoxville.

The guy who makes a living doing things that eighth graders find juvenile.

Whooo-hoooo.

There.  I feel better.

It’s your turn. 

UPDATE: From Spin magazine:

One would expect differently after watching a few episodes of Jackass, perhaps the most (intentionally) squirm-inducing TV show of all time.  Knoxville and producer Spike Jonez sold the concept to Mtv after Knoxville’s DIY stunt videos were passed along by two key taste-making demographics: pro skate-boarders and suburban delinquents.  But immediately after the shows’ 2000 debut, parents and other critics went on the warpath, claiming it was encouraging kids to be reckless.  Senator Joseph Lieberman even called for the network to yank the show entirely, "He wrote a letter once," says Knoxville, "We corrected the spelling and sent it back."

Uh.

Mah.

Gawd.

Stick a fork in me, y’all.  I’m done.  D-U-N, done. 

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