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The symmetry of her face, up close, is genuinely shocking. The lip on the left curves exactly the same way as the lip on the right. The eyes match exactly. The brow is in perfect balance, like a problem of logic, like a visual labyrinth. It's not really even that beautiful...What she is is flawless. There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. 

These are lines from what can only be described as a love letter to vacuity, written in the viscose secretions of a man for whom the word ‘dick’ can be applied in more ways than one. They are offered as part of a five page ode to Megan Fox in Esquire Magazine, which, rather than preoccupy itself with the movie she’s apparently promoting, seems to focus primarily on her ability to give hackneyed Esquire journalists funny feelings in their down-theres.

It is simultaneously the very worst and the very best thing you’ll ever read. In fact, the experience is how I imagine it might feel to enter the crawlspace that leads to John Malkovich’s brain and from there be forced to judge a spoken word competition whose title is simple ‘Feelings’.

16-1-2013  Megan Fox on the cover of Esquire magazine   Pictured: Megan Fox  Photo: Planet Photo Code: 4066 COPYRIGHT STELLA PICTURES

Photo: PLANET PHOTOS

If you can’t bring yourself to make it past the initial comparisons of Fox to an Aztec ritual, never fear. I’ve climbed up the stairs to the great temple so that the priests can cut out my heart and offer it, still beating, to the sun. Like Megan, I will be your human sacrifice.

Let’s wade through this dreck then, never forgetting that its author Stephen Marche was paid handsomely to write it and therefore deserves all the ridicule being justifiably sent his way.   

The guff about the Aztecs:

Marche begins his love poem by alluding to being deep inside Fox (or at least her house). Evidently grateful for the opportunity to visit her basement, he decides to impress her with his extensive knowledge of Horrible Histories.

Deep in her house, Megan Fox and I are discussing human sacrifice. I tell her about an Aztec ritual practiced five hundred years ago in ancient Mexico during the feast of Toxcatl, when the Aztecs picked a perfect youth to live among them as a god. He was a paragon, beautiful and fit and healthy, with ideal proportions.

Fox has been telling me about the toll that celebrity has taken on her, how the only way to keep from bending to the outside is to bend within. She's sitting on a sectional sofa in workout clothes and a sweatshirt that hide her body, her knees folded beneath her.

She is, like, vulnerable you guys. Let’s bend within her.

The sacrifice's year was filled with constant delight, I tell her. He danced through the streets adorned in luxurious clothes given to him by the master, decked in flowers and incense, playing magical flutes that brought prosperity to the whole world. He had eight servants and four virgins to attend to his every need, and could wander wherever he pleased. But at the end of the year, when the feast of Toxcatl came around again, the perfect youth had to smash his flutes and climb the stairs of the great temple, where the priests would cut out his heart and offer it, still beating, to the sun.

Megan Fox is not an ancient Aztec. She's a screen saver on a teenage boy's laptop, a middle-aged lawyer's shower fantasy, a sexual prop used to sell movies and jeans.

"It's so similar. It totally is," she says quietly.

Yes, being first and foremost in the spank banks of millions of 15 year old boys and the Nice Guy writers they will eventually become is TOTALLY similar to having your heart cut out in a ritualised human sacrifice. LIFE AS A CELEBRITY IS REALLY, REALLY HARD. But not as hard as Marche right now.

Megan Fox is hot y’all

Marche spends around 85% of the approximately eleventy billion words summary of his Foxy wet dream musing on Fox’s other worldly beauty. She is ‘a bombshell’, which in 2013 is, as Marche helpfully informs us:

...to be an antiquity, an old-world relic, like movie palaces or fountain pens or the muscle cars of the 1970s or the pinball machines in the basement. Bombshells once used to roam the cultural landscape like buffalo, and like buffalo they were edging toward extinction.

It’s also here, in this embarassing puddle of drool Marche left behind in Fox’s basement, that we learn about how this environmental degradation of the cultural landscape has resulted in less stimulating women taking the glory of those rare and exotic creatures we call ‘pin ups’.

And women no longer need to be beautiful in order to express their talent. Lena Dunham and Adele and Lady Gaga and Amy Adams are all perfectly plain, and they are all at the top of their field.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I just heaved a huge sigh of relief knowing that my success and talent is no longer contingent on my ability to give ‘genuine shock’ wherever I go because of the marvellous symmetry of my appearance. Although, according to this other piece by Marche, women’s contempt for men’s erections is a bit of a problem too. And ultimately, we as a SOCIETY lose when we normalise the presence of homely Plain Janes on our screens - especially the white, stereotypically attractive ones like Adele and Amy Adams.

Because creativity is, was, and always will be sexual. Some of the very first works of art were figures of hugely fecund women dropped all over Europe tens of thousands of years ago. American movies expressed that great fusion of sex and art, too. They are magnificent pagan dreams, utterly profane and glorious. Such movies need bombshells. They need to consume beautiful flesh in their sacrifices. They need women like Megan Fox.

It could be the pagan dreams I’ve been having, but I think what Marche is trying to say here is that he’d like to consume the beautiful flesh of Megan Fox. Creatively. Also, can we just acknowledge for a moment that no industry needs to consume the flesh or souls of its women in order to survive, not even when middle aged male erections are on the line?

The Odes of Marche

Reading what is essentially a literary exercise in Marche waving his penis about, I couldn’t decide if he was more turned on by Fox (bombshell, asymmetrical, human sacrifice) or his own prose. I concluded that while he is visually aroused by Fox, it’s the love affair he seems to be having with his own penmanship that really gets him over the edge. How else can you explain the following lines?

On Fox’s skin:

She holds out her right arm to show me her tattoo of Marilyn Monroe. All that remains of Marilyn is a few drops of black against skin that is the color the moon possesses in the thin air of northern winters.

On Fox’s role models:

Ava Gardner did have control, over herself and others. But even as Fox says the name, a self-aware smile plays over those ultrasymmetrical lips. Self-awareness is her most attractive feature.

On Fox’s face:

It's closer to the sublime, a force of nature, the patterns of waves crisscrossing a lake, snow avalanching down the side of a mountain, an elaborately camouflaged butterfly.

So, to recap: Fox is a camouflauged butterfly snowball cascading down the side of a mountain while also crisscrossing over a lake glistening beneath the light of the moon, which glows gently from her northern wintery skin. Got it.

The Price of Fame :(

Fox hates being famous. Her beauty, her unfettered sexuality, is a burden. She’d rather be an archaeologist exploring the ancient ruins of Israel or Egypt, or speaking in tongues at her local Church. This is why she’s chosen to do a photo shoot and cover story with Esquire magazine, with her ‘perfectly symmetrical body’. (Seriously - the only thing Marche mentions more than ‘symmetrical’ is ‘my boner’. Okay, so he doesn’t actually mention that last one, but it’s all there between the lines. The symmetrical, perfect lines.)

But hey, maybe fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be? After all, remember the Aztec paragon.

At the end of the year, the beautiful youth had to go up by himself. He had to go up willingly. That was part of the deal.

Now she is shaking her head. "Not everyone understands that that's the deal," she says.

It totally is, Marche said quietly, stroking his pen. It, like, totally is.