I’m still waiting for my call from People Magazine. Yet another year is passing by, and my phone has remained tauntingly silent. Every time it does happen to emit that jamming iPhone ringtone, I fist-pump in excitement, concluding that those pretentious editors in New York finally decided to open their eyes, only to sigh in disappointment once I realize it’s just my mom asking me whether I have gotten a job yet.
Why am I anxiously awaiting a phone call from People? Although I do keep up a pretty fine specimen of a bamboo plant in my apartment — my magnificently green thumb is certainly worthy of a feature across any mainstream media source, I believe — and my girlfriend and I are basically the second coming of Brangelina, minus all the adopted children, I am not expecting them to contact me over any such matter.
Let’s just say that when I heard the recent rumors floating around about Adam Levine most likely assuming the throne of the man kingdom, also known as People’s “Sexiest Man Alive,” I tweezed my eyebrows in a fiery rage before closing myself off inside my dark room while reading Edgar Allen Poe and listening to Sarah McLachlan’s “In the Arms of an Angel” — despite there being no abused dogs in need of an owner within eyesight.
That should be me, people! People! Every sense of the word “people” possible! I should be the Sexiest Man Alive, not this wannabe Adam Levine guy.
Who even is Adam Levine? Hmm, it’s awfully close to Avril Lavigne, don’t you think? Does he wear loose-fitting ties and sing about skater boys — excuse me, sk8er bois — and fill teens with so much angst that they’re not even going to do their algebra homework that night, too? I’m told he’s the singer of a band called Maroon 5. Hmm, a tad close to Jackson 5, now isn’t it, Adam? Is he a young black kid with an afro who sings about the alphabet, too? Not even plausible; he’s hardly that adorable.
OK, so, if I’m going to be completely honest, I do indeed know who Adam Levine is — I don’t live under a rock after all. And I really don’t mind the guy, but any usurper of my crown receives the sour treatment for at least a month, or two, or 12. I even had to dislike Johnny Depp for a period of time, which was truly quite painful, because if I could be one thing in this world besides SMA — I might as well just start calling it SMA, right? — it would be Captain Jack Sparrow. I do admit, though, back when Depp won the title in 2009, I wasn’t yet deserving. I was still a metal mouth and thought shopping at Tilly’s was a good idea. You got me that time, Johnny boy.
But there’s no excuse this time around. I’m fully arrived, baby. My teeth gleam, my jeans fit like a glove and my jawline is simply miraculous.
Can’t you concede this one to me, Adam? You have enough going for you. I don’t think one more cover of a magazine is going to do much for you. You’re the singer of a popular band, a judge on one of TV’s most watched reality competition shows, a hunky piece of bod in the eyes of women worldwide and you get to go home every night to your Victoria’s Secret model fiancee and your robe made from 100 percent alpaca fur. Come on, man, I eat Chipotle burritos by myself in my apartment as I write some superfluous essay on how dashing Mr. Darcy is before crying myself to sleep over the beauty of the cinematography in “Manhattan.” Who needs this honor more, huh, buddy?
Perhaps it’s his irresistible stubble. Perhaps it’s his risque yet tasteful tattoos. Perhaps it’s his moves that contain an uncanny resemblance to those of Jagger. But thanks to “No Shave November,” I’ve got some pretty sexy facial hair now as well. And I know this guy named Tony who could ink me up like some parchment paper if that’s what it takes. And, please, if you’ve seen my stanky leg, you would know that I would school Mr. Levine in a dance-off any day of the week.
Oh, but he’s so sensitive and sweet, Taran. Does he love “The Holiday,” treat his girlfriend to some five-star-quality french fries at In N Out and give his loved ones homemade birthday cards made from construction paper like me? Because that shit is as sweet as Ghirardelli caramel chocolate.
Let’s get some diversity going, People Magazine. Oh, what a shocker, another middle-aged white guy with some nice pecs and suave hair is picked as the symbol of ideal sexiness. That’s been the characteristics of practically every winner of this prestigious award over the years. I’d give you diversity, People Magazine. I’m a young white guy with some nice pecs and suave hair rather than a middle-aged one. Hello, 21st century.
Adam Levine receiving 2013’s “Sexiest Man Alive” award instead of me is simply inexcusable. I’ve waited long enough. I’ll give you one more break, People Magazine, but if I do not receive a phone call from you again next year, then I just may put my well-toned muscles to use.