Who is Kat Dennings and why am I devoting my life to her?

How Do I love thee, Kat? Let me count the
ways. Two! That was wasy!

I had just turned eleven when John Hinkley Junior shot President Reagan in front of the Washington Hilton. John Lennon had been killed a few months earlier, so I grasped the concept of someone firing a few bullets into the trunk of someone I liked, but the events surrounding the attempted assassination confused me as the days passed and more information became public.

We very quickly learned that Hinckley wanted to bag a commander-in-chief so as to impress actress Jodie Foster, who was then a student at Yale University. As it happens, Hinckley had been communicating his sadly unrequited love to Foster for several months and generally creeping her the fuck out.

And that's where my confusion began. Sure, I liked Taxi Driver as much as the next guy, and I had already known love and loss more than you would expect of someone of my youth. Plus, I was already in sexual hyperdrive. My eye was already drawn to women of every description and the boiling in my balls that haunts me even today had been a constant concern for several years. By the time of the Reagan shooting, my right hand was approximately twice the size of my left and my grip was already so strong that I could snap a 2X4 between my fingers. At eleven years old I was as well versed in l'amour and uncontrollable sexual desire as any three men four times my senior and was already doing push-ups with my tongue. What can I tell you? It's a gift.

But Jodie Foster? I guess she's cute in a mousy kind of way, but hardly worthy of assassinating a sitting president over. There had only been forty of them at that point, and not a romantic resource to be wasted lightly. Had Hinckley taken at a shot at Reagan over, say, Raquel Welch, I would have understood him completely. That he did for Miss Foster - who no man worth his sexual salt would shoot even a former White House chief of staff over - convinced me beyond any doubt that he was profoundly sick and determined to give sexually frustrated losers everywhere a bad name. The state was right to put him away. It simply couldn't have happened any other way.

I hadn't heard of Kat Dennings until a few months ago, when a series of her naked pictures leaken online. Because the concept of a loving god is laughable to anyone with even a modicum of common sense, her legal team harassed, badgered and cajoled any website that published the pictures into complete submission. I saved copies of them and everything, but they're very difficult to find online. Her shysters are nothing if not thorough. You know who else was thorough? Hitler. I'm not saying that you necessarily have to go to law school to be a genocidal fuerher, just that it doesn't hurt.

I still haven't seen a movie that she's been in or even heard her voice, but I'm increasingly convinced that Kat is perfect in all the ways that truly matter. Lindsay Lohan will always have a special place in my soul - and God knows that I love any woman who manages to look and sound forty by the time she's 24 - but Kat Dennings might just be better.

There's just something about a smoky brunette with sultry eyes, pouting lips and gigantic fucking titties that touches me in a profoundly spiritual way. While I've always walked through life with disturbingly large and swollen genitals, Kat Dennings makes them feel as though they have a renewed purpose. The constant aching between my legs is distracting, to be sure, but just knowing that it's caused by her makes me feel alive in ways that had eluded me of late. Constantly writing about Canadian politics for five weeks has a way of deadening a man's soul, as Paul Wells can probably tell you.

Verily, those giant knockers can change a man in ways that he probably didn't possible. I'd be deeply and profoundly disturbed by the emotions running through me if I didn't already feel this way 37 different times a day for over four decades. But these are professional tricks, performed by a professional and not intended for home use.

The moral of this little essay is that John Hinckley needs around-the-clock professional supervision because his poor taste in women make him unpredictable to himself and others around him.

And yes, I'm devoting my life to Kat Dennings and her majestic mammaries. But I'm not so deeply smitten that I would pay nearly twenty bucks to see her in Thor, which looks like the ultimate lemonparty.