Dear Henry Cavill, you'll have to go through me to steal my wife
Let's just put all the cards on the table.
Greetings, your Cavillness.
First off, I’m a big fan and can’t wait for you to lay thankful waste to the overrated Christopher Lambert/Highlander legacy. You got royally screwed over by Warner Brothers because your moody, killing Superman wasn’t as dark and complex as the cash cow, Batman. Ultimately, they made you fight the man and watch him save your mom’s mortgage. The worst part was putting you in a script where Superman didn’t immediately rip Bruce Wayne to shreds like you nearly did in Justice League. That would have been the worst Affleck beatdown since Gigli. Instead, his slow ass got this close to stabbing you with pure kryptonite.
However, your finest work is outside the Sup zone. Give me a sequel to Man from U.N.C.L.E. and I may forgive the lack of follow-up for Man of Steel, but give me another Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare sequel and we’re even better. Your career still feels like it’s missing that one defining role. Maybe Highlander gives you that peace, or one of the other things in development with your pecs attached.
Speaking of your pecs, that’s what I’m writing to you (or the 404 subscribers to this blog) about today has nothing to do with your Hollywood resume. It has to do with the fact that your biceps are insanely huge and your admirable nature on sets and during interviews makes you a rare leading man. All it takes is you sitting in a chair reciting words from a book, and women’s pants fall across the nation. It’s a series of emotional triggers, Henry.
My wife is quite fond of you. It’s not an “ah, he’s nice looking” attraction like Ryan Gosling or Daniel Craig, but a five-alarm fire code sent straight to her… heart. Only a few seconds of a reel unlocks the persuasive desire that it took me years to find. I would have to do all the dishes, rake all the leaves, and complete the laundry to get the look you get from a sleep-hungry and coffee-deprived woman before 7:00 a.m.
Buddy, as my dad would say, you’re there. It’s not fair, but neither is the fact that I’ll use a large metal chair to hit you with if the day comes that you end up on my door. When the wife tells me you’ve overtaken Captain America himself, Chris Evans, there’s reason to rewatch the end of Commando when Arnold suits up for battle. I’ll do that when Henry comes waltzing down January Avenue, eager to show my wife his particular brand of “cardio.”
I’ll lose the fight, but will retain the right to my wife and all of her treasures. The body, heart, and mind. No offense, your Cavillness, but those hairy pectoral muscles aren’t enough to sway my wife from outside 100 yards. It all started back in Zack Snyder’s DC film debut, when you found himself in a McConaughey-type dilemma. You didn’t have a shirt.
Normal big guys have a decent upper body, but you do a little muscle jog around a building looking like a human brick shit house and make us all look bad. Your lack of a sweet tooth or true weakness for French fries is ruthless, as is the fact that you work out every day and manage to make even gibberish sound like poetry. Again, it’s not fair.
Neither is life. I love your work, Henry, but stay away from my wife. Stay in your lane, or in her reels. I literally have no chance to take you on alone, but my very large pit bull will pick up the slack. He doesn’t care about big muscles or sweet voices; his dad is king, and that’s that.
P.S. You also love dogs. I’m screwed.
