tirsdag den 1. december 2015

Genren: Mandefantasi

Amy Schumer fantaserer på bestilling om Årets Mænd i magasinet GQ:

Tom Brady picks me up in a nice car. He says, “Get in,” and I do, and we drive fast. We are listening to some dogshit on the radio that he likes. Even in my fantasy, I can’t imagine he likes good music. I turn it down and say, “Hey, what happened where is your supermodel wife I thought we were all spending the day together?” and he pulls over and takes my hand and looks in my eyes and says: “I didn’t invite her because I wanted to be alone with you. Yes, she is beautiful and the mother of my children, but you are smart and funny and I’ve been waiting to have sex with someone with a real body, a real ass, who has lots of bad angles depending on the lighting, and I want to be with you and not that supermodel who does yoga on the beach a lot.” I sit silently for a few seconds. Then I get out of the car and apologize for what I have just done to the seat and I run down the highway screaming, “I knew it!”


Will Smith and I are filming a movie. We step out of our trailers—and no one is around. I say, “Hey, Bill” (inside joke even though I have never met him). “Where is everyone?” He looks over my shoulder and says, “Oh no, they’re here.” I turn around slowly, like crazy-ass slowly. And I see them. Tons and tons of zombies. He grabs us a bunch of guns and lasers. We kill them all. We get all sweaty and we look really hot. And I say something cool like “They didn’t even see it coming.” Not that but something cool.

Barack Obama and I are at a restaurant in New Orleans. I am eating alone when the waiter says, “Barack sent you this.” And it’s a glass of Lagavulin 16 year. My favorite scotch. I acknowledge with a nod and finish my meal. Like I’m the coolest bitch ever. We walk out without talking, and go to Preservation Hall and watch a bunch of different amazing jazz musicians. We smoke cigars and drink scotch and never say a word to each other.

Bradley Cooper:

Tracy Morgan and I sit in a hibachi restaurant; he makes me laugh until I can’t breathe.

Keith Richards and I end up at a late-night party in Amsterdam where Prince, Cat Power, Wu-Tang Clan, and Ani DiFranco are all hanging out and playing music until dawn. We make out but just for a second.

Steph Curry:
I ask him who he is. He tells me—I think it’s basketball. He asks who I am. I tell him, Chelsea Handler. Then we spoon and watch The Land Before Time. Why that? How about it’s none of your business what we do!!!

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