Women want to marry Michael Fassbender, not some pansy.

Well, maybe not marry, just spend a little quality time with…

I like the mustache.

I like Liz Jones, but she ups her chances of holding my attention when she includes pictures of Michael Fassbender. Do I have to reiterate my weakness for Irish men? It’s an addiction that dates back to my 17th year. You can’t quit that kind of hotness.

Anyway, Liz’s piece is a great rant against the many, many deficiencies of hen-pecked, pansified men. I have very little use for hen-pecked pansies, and I have to admit that I hate them a little. For as aggravating as Mr. HG can be with his stubbornness, his irrefutable masculinity and his general resistance to what some might consider sensible nagging, I’d destroy a lesser man. And I’d do it for fun. Because I’ve done it before and I know that I can. (Did I mention that it’s a whole lot of fun?)

Mmm-hmmm.

In sum, I just wanted to include a picture of Michael Fassbender. Aside from being deliciously delicious, he’s got this great name: Fassbender. My friend Anna and I regularly text each other the single word: Faaaaassssbender. Sometimes there’s a picture attached.

It’s just… the Irish and the cheekbones and the talent and the, you know, hotness. He’s a great actor, and does the cold, dead-eyed thing well, for which I happen to have quite a soft spot.

Whatever. This:

Yeah.

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