God Loves George Clooney

By Special Mung Hour correspondant Double-S

I finally have to take umbrage with the otherwise brilliant idontlikeyouinthatway.com because it's clear that either 'Jenny' or 'Todd' simply doesn't understand what it is to be Clooney. Honestly, I can only dream of what it must be like, but I do know why the former Batman spent a year with an obvious skank.

One, he can presumably afford the best rubbers in the world. Two, it's evident she'd let him do anything to her for one more week of free room and board in one of his homes. Anything. You date Cameron Diaz or one of those snooty Victoria's Secret models, there will be limits. It's evident from the pictures of her that she'd have no trouble with:

"Look sweetheart, I just paid $4,000 at Christie's for Linda Harrison's costume from Planet of the Apes. I've thrown down some hay in the back of the garden shed. Put the rawhide panties on, go out there and take a nap and later, after I've had a few Grey Gooses and a Viagra, I'm going to come out and cornhole you while Richard Kind shoots us with a garden hose. Any problems with that?"

"No, George. That'll be fine."

Yeah, I'm sure the first two or three times Tom Brady peeled off Giselle Bunchen's panties, it was the kind of joy/terror the rest of us can only experience in the wake of surviving intense military combat. Now, TMZ follows the poor whipped bastard around and takes pictures of him buying Tampax for her.

You don't see a dejected Clooney shuffling around a Tarzana RiteAid at 8am on a Sunday praying some pap doesn't show up to snap him putting a jumbo box of Kotex on his platinum Amex. Why? Because he is Clooney and Clooney doesn't do that kind of shit. I'm sure you're thinking, "But, you haven't addressed why this Oscar winning actor/director would spend a year of his life with an obviously ignorant stripper/hooker/waitress."

Actually, I have. Though Tom Brady is twenty years younger, he spends all his time running for his life from Ray Lewis, Bridget Moynahan's lawyers, and Giselle's personal assistant. He's praying for death every time he lines up against the Pittsburgh Steelers, because he was too arrogant and stupid to man-ram anonymous tramps. Nope, he had to go all Romo and date famous actresses. Babyfaced bastard even impregnated one. If only Terry Bradshaw or Joe Montana could've intervened in time.

Meanwhile, George associates himself with the kind of woman he can leave handcuffed to a bed for three hours while he goes and plays a game of pick up basketball. At the end of the day, what's she gonna do? Leave him? Boo hoo. And once he's defiled her in every way possible, he calls James Woods to give him first dibs on sloppy seconds and proceeds to find a NEW skank!

RIP Skank Du Jour. See you in the pages of Penthouse or online at www.seewhatgeorgesaw.com.