I can understand the blissful vibes and warm puppy dogs kisses we want to bestow upon Sandra Bullock at all hours of the day. I really can.
She's like one of the 5 or 6 hottest girls in your class, yet she's still friends with everyone (including the Fucktards, Dicklords, and Spazzmoids), shotguns brews in the school parking lot, isn't afraid to "party" sans los pantalones or take mammoth future NFL lineman into her home (and boudoir) to save them from the mean streets of whatever stereotypical hellhole they happen to have been living in.
She's a saint. And I love her body, mind, soul and lovely lady lumps.
But none of that compares to the total Libertine perfection of one Jesse "The Senator" James.
This classically handsome, unabashedly cerebral and physically-imposing carnal profligate is the solid, liquid and gas form of asskicking, and I would not stand in the way for even a moment if he wanted to do the horizontal love thump with any of-age female in my lineage. (Mom, like you weren't already three steps ahead of me with your pleasure-beam eyes.)
Let's face it, Ro-ark: He's young. He's rich. He's unyieldingly virile. And he needs to get his freakiddy freak on wherever and whenever he can.
And yet, Ms. Bullock, you still dare to judge him? You didn't even take his name, child.
While his lovable debauchee is out at all hours playing tongue-Jai Alai or knee hockey with scores of lofty-cheekboned thespians and crooners, is Double J supposed to chastely sit home and watch the Hallmark Hall of Fame movie? Bake quiche? Refuse to spread his ample, libidinous seed around to scores of skeezalicious, inked-up stag film starlets?
Stand by your man, girlfriend!
He forgave you for The Lake House. Now it's your turn.