Hit it

Dear Christina Hendricks,

We, the assorted gay ladies of the world, apologize for hitting on you. OK, that’s a lie. We do not apologize for hitting on you. We love hitting on you. We dream about hitting on you on the regular. If given a chance, many of us would crawl over broken glass or any such similarly jagged and therefore painful surfaces to hit on you. These are just facts which like science and fresh-out-of-the-oven chocolate chip cookies cannot be denied.

What we apologize for is hitting on you in front of your husband. Bad form. As you told Harper’s Bazaar, women apparently hit on you all the time. Gay men, too. We’re tickled you find it flattering. But we’re a tad worried that your husband finds that so many of us hit on you “odd.” He has eyes, right? I mean, not to be mean (which, have you ever noticed, whenever something is prefaced by that what follows is undoubtedly incredibly, shamelessly mean?) he is also aware of all of our unending resentment at his very existence, right? Nothing personal, it’s just we resent anyone who gets to go home every night with the object of international lust and countless sweaty fever dreams.

I guess what I really wanted to say is thank you for being flattered, we’ll try to hold off on the flirting in front of your husband and, dude, just sit back and enjoy it. You’re married to Christina Hendricks. You lucky fucking bastard.

Cheers,
Ms. Snarker

p.s. There was also that one time Christina did this on “Without a Trace.” So now, well, I hope you can understand where all those sweaty dreams are coming from.