Isaiah Mustafa—aka the Old Spice Guy—is everywhere we turn: on our TV, in our movie theater previews and a gazillion Web sites. And now, the former NFL player’s announced that he scored a role in the upcoming Jennifer Aniston flick “Horrible Bosses.” How do we get your life, dude? Is it just the body wash? We’ll trade you any beer you want for a bottle of the good stuff.
Vogue’s annual Costume Institute Gala takes place on Monday night, and you’re in charge for the first time. Good luck with that whole thing.
You’ve been planning for 10 months, telling New York Magazine, “I’m shocked the planning started so early, but it does. It takes almost a year. You get two months off and then right back at it.”
Ugh, that sounds terrible. We can barely plan a party 10 minutes in advance. You’ve memorized the seating chart for the 600 guests, which apparently changes daily. (Honestly, in this day and age of computers and Internet and smart phones, is remembering where Prada’s executive director of nail clippings going to sit really necessary?) Anywho, when it’s all over, call us. We’ll buy you a beer.
There you were, driving down some unnamed road in Iowa when four boys flagged you down. The reason? They were jogging and suddenly found themselves in the midst of a massive hail storm that left at least one kid with massive welts and cuts up and down his body. (The pictures are too graphic to post buc click through and, well, gross.)
“They laid in the ditch, which was a good idea but they were just getting the tar beat out of them and the ditches were filling with water, so they knew they couldn’t stay there,” you said of the rescue. You put the boys in your van and drove them to a local hospital. Well done, Mrs. Crawford. A beer for you. Drink it indoors, please.
Last week, we bought a beer for humanity because we worried the world would end when scientists started slamming particles together in the Large Hadron Collider. That, thankfully, didn’t happen. (In fact, success! And puns!)
What did happen, however, was you trespassed, claiming to be from the future. In your words: “Countries do not exist where I am from. The discovery of the Higgs boson led to limitless power, the elimination of poverty and Kit-Kats for everyone. It is a communist chocolate hellhole and I’m here to stop it ever happening.”
Sounds like a great time. Can we come?
Sure, you passed away yesterday, but that doesn’t mean we can’t purchase a pint in your honor. As almost the entire general public knows, you wrote Catcher in the Rye, a couple other works, then disappeared into seclusion. You spent the last 50 years of your life at your Cornish, N.H. house. The entire story is amazing, one worth writing in a book sometime. Too bad you won’t be here to pen it for us. Not that you would anyway.
Last night, you shocked the world by announcing you would leave Tennessee (after just 14 months!) to coach the University of Southern California’s football team. You’re bringing your father, Monte, with you to take care of the defensive duties.
Vols fans are angry (like mattress-burning po’d), and rightly so. More interesting, however, is the outrage from sports commentators around the country. Apparently, your departure says some terrible things about the state of college football. Rhetoric=high.
Look, you’re probably a sleezeball, but we’ll buy you a beer. If nothing else, it’s always fun when college students get a chance to riot.
Yesterday, after being hit by a car on your morning walk, you passed away at the tender age of 104.
By all accounts, you were pound-for-pound one of the strongest men to ever live. Despite weighing between 125 and 150 pounds during your prime, you lifted 475 pounds… with your teeth. You also bent quarters.
“Pound for pound, in the feats that he practiced, he was one of the greatest performing strongmen we’ve ever had, if the lifts he’s credited with are accurate,” said Terry Todd, a co-director of the Stark Center for Physical Culture and Sports at the University of Texas.
You never drank alcohol, but we’ll buy you a beer anyway and pour it out for one of the greats who’s no longer with us.
(That picture was taken on the occasion of your 103rd birthday. We hope we look that good at 63.)
