George Clooney Realizes That Even Mundane Tasks Are Sexy When He Does It

CHN has purchased a 2006 Diary of Clooney's that was recently stolen by his gardener. The following passages offer remarkable insight into his very personal and private thoughts concerning his struggle with his own feelings about his personal sexiness.


Dear Secret Mystic Ladies of My Enchanted Diary,
Now that summer is coming to a close I have had ample time to try to put Syrianna behind me and reflect on what has been and what should be. I can't help but repeat the burning fact that when I write I hear my own voice with all of it's deep melodic calmness and raspy undertone. Certainly that could explain some of my love for writing. But that in fact is why I join this pen to paper on this fine evening. I realize that I have begun to fall in love with the pure sight of my own hand as its dances across the fine parchment that I grace with the only the most elusive strokes of this $1,800.00 Gold Pen.

As promised I have considered carefully an answer to my own question posed regularly since 1994. What is it that separates me from other men? Why and how did I get this sexy... this desirable? Why me God? Why me indeed.

I have been metastasized with a euphoric calmness to have finally realized the answer to my long and arduous quest. And here is how it happened:

Late yesterday morn, I sensed that a mild friction had occurred as my left elbow brushed sheepishly against the Egyptian Cotton Toilet Paper that was neatly folded in sections next to my Latrine. Just as a precaution, and nothing more, I whipped 2 ounces of organic goat's milk with 1 part pure Aloe and 2 parts Chinamen extract. As I applied the lather to my elbow I couldn't help but to glance in the mirror. That's when I saw it. Here I was dressed in no more than a Prince's Cape circa late Medici period when the answer of all answers came forth:

Even the most heinous and mundane of daily tasks are sexy when I am the one doing them. What man, I ask, could bring a woman to full moisture simply by combing ones hair or faking a motorcycle accident.

Who before us, I ask, is on the mind of every gay man in America when he simply is drinking a cup of espresso or calling an accountant to have his rather excessive balances read back to him on speakerphone during brunch at the Ivy. But such is the case with me; that is my burden and surly it is mine alone. I lament; no one else would understand my plight.... no one else sans you my Mystic Ladies of This Enchanted Diary. To think, I am the only person that God has vanquished to have only himself to think of; to dream of; when pursuing ecstasy and sexual climax.

With that I depart. My touch is needed elsewhere; the silent void of my voice is deafening on the set of Leatherheads. I must quiet that void. Ciao.

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