Free Ashton

Come on, schlumpy, embittered male movie critics. Cut Ashton a break. He was as cute as a Tamagotchi in "A Lot Like Love." Not that I saw this movie. Of course, I did not. If I had, though, I would have declared him as winsome as a Japanese keychain pocket pet, what with his oversized pants, and way of mooning about in his scenes. You know there is not a single schlumpy and embittered male movie critic out there who would not trade places with Ashton in a picosecond, just to see those abs in the mirror, even if he did have to pose for photo ops with those eerily unattractive Bruce Willis offspring at awards shows.

Nontent

Like you, I have speculated that I must have been wearing some highly magnified beer goggles the day I compared Ashton Kutcher to an adorable, expired Japanese fad item, and I share your sense of shame and outrage that he has smugly perched above the fold here on tiny dog for a week now, as if this were some fauxlebrity-whoring celebrity Web site, like E!. Next thing you know, I will list all of the items Brit and K-Fed ordered last time they took the Cadillac Escalade through the Taco Time drive through, complete with a calorie chart.

The problem is, even Ashton is better than the alternative, which would be, to foist nontent upon the reading masses, nontent being that common and bilious by-product of the average blog, in which the author breezily rambles about the chronological events of his or her utterly unremarkable day, in place of a thesis, a thesis being something like, Ashton is as cute as a Tamagotchi, or, the Kirkland Totem Lake Mall is an echoing mausoleum of soulless drifters.

Lately I've started rambles on any number of pointless, pop-cultural footnotes, for example, I tried to dissect the Cosmopolitan magazine style guide (a style guide being, that rule book of terminology into which all editors are paid to jello-mold content in pursuit of some elusive whiff of brand-specific élan) due to the magazine's glaring and hilarious over-use of "your guy," "down there," "sack session," and other tone deaf expressions likely hatched not by the sassy ingénues of cool-hunting marketer's dreams but rather Botox-embalmed managing editors in pointy, thousand dollar shoes.

But: I realized that in its heart, this ramble was bankrupt, since the long and short of it is that I really just hate this term, sack session, which is just about the least sexy pairing of words possibly imaginable. Anything else I could say about Cosmo would be pure rhetorical padding, nontent if you will, the kind of stuff you might produce if you were trying to shove Ashton's picture below the fold to stop the mighty torrent of hate mail burying the mail room interns since his tiny dog debut.

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