In your mind, Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Ashton Kutcher wish they were you. The Hiltons, The Kardashians, hell, even The Beatles all wish they could party with you.
As you so placidly pose for every camera shot, we understand the trauma that comes with the territory of being so damn good lookin’. We empathize with you, for all the hours spent in your childhood suburban basement, doing curls and bench presses with your JCPenney dumbbell set, so strategically placed under the watchful eye of Leif Garrett’s knowing smirk on that Tiger Beat magazine cover taped to your cold, hard cinder block wall… uttering to yourself, “That’s gonna be me someday, dammit.”
We feel your pain, Zak. So many lassies, so little time. Not even enough clicks in a day to put the “c” in your first name. We understand all the tribulations you must endure, being the heartthrob of every pig-tailed, prepubescent grade school girl just dying to throw a postage stamp on the picture she colored of you.
People might say it’s a gift, Zak. But we understand. We know your hard core handsomeness is a curse. An albatross about your neck. But you must go on. Ye, you must gallantly hunt, oh beauteous, bewitching Zak Bagans.
