Never, ever, ever thought we’d play my game, Picture Him On Top Of You, featuring Johnny Depp. Ever.
When I invented it, it was because we kept covering these Hollywood parties we’d always see these women, these gorgeous gorgeous women, wrapped around the grossest, sickest, vilest, richest men. And that became the question: how strong is your gag reflex, what would it take, how much would it cost, what job would you want, what benefit would have to be offered, for you to lie underneath that sh-t and not want to burn your own skin?
Sure. He’s in costume for the Whitey Bulger movie. And he’s probably got padding underneath those jeans, the most hideous man jeans we’ve seen, maybe ever. And yeah, ok, it’s not fair to judge on that criteria.
But you know what? It’s only half of it. The other half is the real Johnny Depp costume, the one that consists of ripped old hats and flood jeans from the 90s and 18 belt scarfs and maybe even a feather or eight. I don’t want to picture that guy on top of me either.
That guy, as you can see, is kissing his fiancée, tenderly cupping her face, as she smiles into his mouth. And it’s now occurred to me that ever since we talked about how sucky she’d been looking out in public with him – click here for a refresher – all they ever do is kiss and smile into each others’ faces. Like they think they can porn it up with Brange. As IF.
