Dear Chris Hemsworth,
It all started innocently enough. One day, doubtless procrastinating from doing something far more productive and legitimate, I amused myself by watching some movie trailers. As I always enjoy a good cheeseball Movie-with-a-capital-M, especially one based on a comic book, ‘Thor’ was one of the top of the list, and I eagerly pressed play on the little Quicktime button. And then, when I finished, I pressed play again. But I admit, Chris Hemsworth, it wasn’t just the promise of action, adventure, nerdy mythology, and the phrase ‘cast out of a fantastical realm’ that made me look twice (and by twice, I mean about fourteen times) at that trailer. It was a certian hunk of Asgardian man-meat.
No, not Anthony Hopkins. I mean, of course, yourself. You of the ginormous biceps, whose visage shines forth from many a billboard across the city (whose locations I might well be able to map out, should you ever require it.)
As the days continued, I did some innocent research. I read of your miraculous physical transformation from normal-shaped guy to armor-wearing beefcake for ‘Thor’. I realized that I had seen you playing Chris Pine’s father in ‘Star Trek’, which made me feel briefly weird about lusting after a (fictional) father/son duo. I learned that Joss Whedon personally recommended you for ‘Thor’. And I learned your country of origin was Australia, my beloved spirit country, which made me wonder if I hadn’t just dreamed you out of the part of my subconscious that stores all my favorite things (can you sing? Because that might actually believe it’s true).
In short, Chris Hemsworth, I considered developing quite a little crush on you. But I’m sorry to say that it must come to an end. I know, I know, you’re disappointed, but alas, it’s a good reason, I promise.
You see, Chris Hemsworth, I have to think of the children.
I know that’s hasty, as it’s unlikely I will ever meet you, let alone reproduce with you, but I’m a traditionalist – I like to think that in some potential alternate universe I might actually meet my crushes (I was never one to lust after a young Marlon Brando knowing that he would age into a pasty Jabba the Hutt, or to pine over a long-dead John Keats, as did some of my early classmates). and the reality is, you and I would never work for the simple reason that between small, squinty-eyed me and small, squinty-eyed you, our children would be mole children. And that would just be bad for the species.
Think about it, Chris Hemsworth. I know you know what I’m talking about – I know you know the particular suffering of we small-eyed folk. I know that at least once you’ve been taking a group photo on a sunny day, and had someone say “Chris, open your eyes!” and then had to respond “my eyes ARE open!!”. I’ve been there too. And that’s exactly my point. If our genes combined, it’s possible that our collective recessive ‘invisible eyes’ gene would take over, and our children would be left stumbling blindly into things while the Tarsier babies of Amanda Seyfried and Elijah Wood* dashed about, capable of spotting oncoming danger at vast distances with their cartoonishly oversized peepers. And while it’s possible that the future world will be beset with things that might make our hidden eyes a big plus – like, say, constant sandstorms – it’s just not likely.
So I leave you to your Hollywood realm, where you will doubtless have no shortage of ladies long of limb and obvious of eyeball to choose from, and I shall go my way. But know that this weekend when ‘Thor’ opens, somewhere on the East Coast there will be a girl watching you on the big screen. And know, too, that when someone asks her how she can see the movie without opening her eyes, she will reply “my eyes ARE open!!”, and think of you.
P.S. Although you will probably have your pick of the Hollywood ladies, you miiiight want to stay away from Renee Zellweger, for obvious reasons.
* Should they ever choose to reproduce – I don’t want to start any rumors here.