In 2016, there’s no shortage of men writing about women in borderline deplorable ways.
Just look at the Vanity Fair profile of Margot Robbie.
This happens because a lot of magazines, not just Vanity Fair, have decided that it’s totally kosher to assign men who are over the age of 50 with the job of writing about the young, hot female celebrities of the moment.
New York Magazine’s The Cut took this abominable form profiling and turned it cheeky by making a sexist profile generator, Mad Libs style.
We made one of our own with the generator, using Mila Kunis, Emma Stone and Channing Tatum:
Legend has it that when trappers first came upon the mountain range we know now as the Grand Tetons, they believed them to resemble a particular part of the female anatomy, so they named them the Great Boobs Mountains. Many a man has tried to capture the majesty of Great Boobs Mountains in words, and much like attempts to describe the defiant beauty of Emma Stone, most fail. Noble man that I am, I present my attempt at doing both.
Like a mountain pushing through a passing cloud, Emma Stone walked into the secluded restaurant on the Malibu coast that I was sitting in, looking like a banana cream pie. She was soft, Parisian, and award-winning, and though she is 32, she doesn’t look a day over 21. Her signature stems were practically glistening in the morning air, and as she glanced toward me, I remembered the first time I saw the Grand Tetons and tried in my head to compare them to Emma Stone. They are, I mused, nothing compared to her. She grinned at me blissfully, and I felt a part of my steely heart melt into brown goo.
Emma Stone isn’t all about sex appeal. The first thing she said as she entered the booth across from me at this secluded Malibu coastside restaurant is — well, I don’t remember, because I wasn’t listening. But I did notice as she ordered a Manhattan, she ordered it like a man: straight up and ballsy. She was wearing a brassiere and the getup fit her like a glove. I could tell that she was about to woo me with her soft conversation. I braced myself for contact. Is this woman the new Mila Kunis?
“Loud, unintelligible noise,” she said, and she smiled because she thought I’d heard her. Isn’t that sweet? What I was really thinking about was why my mother didn’t love me and Derek Jeter’s wedding and of course, touching her pins, but aren’t we all? She exists to be consumed: She’s the new Mila Kunis. I saw Emma Stone in her latest film, a film for which she surely deserves several Emmys. Emma Stone acts her little heart out: She’s like if my sister were hot and I could bonk her. In fact, she’s like America’s little sister. She’s the sister that we all wished we had — and we are all dying to bonk her.
The thing that most people don’t realize about Emma Stone is that she wasn’t born and bred in Los Angeles like some sort of magical sexy robot for our viewing pleasure. No, no. Not the case, sir. She is from a place, and that place is Northport. Her mom was a tollbooth operator and her dad was a bank teller and she was the third of six siblings. She’s a Cancer but what do you care about that? It’s not important. She made it out of there and onto the silver screen. Here, I will take a short break to describe, in length, a boxing match I once saw in a hearty town full of culture, like Rome or Savannah.
Anyway. Back to this woman, if we can even call her that, because she is more like a Pallas’ cat. She made it out of Northport before she graduated high school, knowing that the Hollywood life was for her. “Whirring, buzzing, droning sound,” she told me about her childhood dreams and struggles to make it in the acting business over her second drink. “Screeching! Impossible screeching!” I get her. I really do. Like this Parisian actress, I had dreams at that age. And now I just write sloppy magazine profiles to pay for my VR porn habit. But hey, here we were, at this little restaurant off the coast of Malibu, talking mano a mano. I realized that we’re level with each other, and I’m feeling confident, so I ordered a whiskey Coke. I told her, in great detail and length, the story I told you about the boxing match in Savannah or Rome. She was rapt. I began to consider this encounter withEmma Stone a date. I ceremoniously smirked, and swirled my Bud in the center of my palm.
Which reminds me: Many people have speculated that Emma Stone has been cavorting with Channing Tatum. When I prodded her on this subject multiple times, she simply laughed it off: “No, I’m not seeing anyone right now,” she told me. It is the only thing I heard her say all night. And I heard it clear as day, as clear as sands leaking through an hourglass, which coincidentally, Emma Stone’s body is the same shape as. I’m talking about her Grand Tetons, if you catch my meaning.
As we parted ways at this gorgeous unnamed and nondescript restaurant off the Malibu coast, she turned around to flash me her winning dimples that some might argue made her career. I would argue that, too but she’s built of tougher stuff now. She mouthed something — what was it? It sounded like, “Yadda yadda yadda,” in her breathy growl — and she smiled. Emma Stone isn’t just the award-winning new Hollywood actress. She’s the greatest one, too. And I gotta say, I like the way she looks in a bathing suit.
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