Ross Murray's Border Report
Ross Murray
Ross Murray
is a freelance writer living in Stanstead, Quebec. You can reach him at
Posted 12.04.04
Stanstead, Quebec


I'm feeling a little behind

I was crushed last week to learn that once again I had been passed over as the Sexiest Man Alive.

I made the discovery while picking up fish sticks at my local IGA. I was on my way to the checkout, when suddenly the entire store went quiet. All eyes were on me as I passed the magazine rack. I stopped and turned.

There on the cover of People were the devilish good looks of Jude Law. I went cold all over. Of course, I was holding a box of fish sticks at the time.

"Damn," I said under my breath. My interjection seemed to break the awkward silence around me. The other shoppers continued with their errands, some of them meeting me with that sad "better luck next time" smile I have come to know so well over the years. I made my way to the checkout.

"You're still the sexiest man in the 8 Items or Less checkout, Mr. Murray," said the cashier, her eyes shyly downcast.

"Thank you, Loollalinda. That's very sweet of you."

I fled the grocery store, feeling the sting of rejection and the outrage of injustice. Once again, People had scoured the earth to find the Sexiest Man Alive and it had turned out to be a celebrity. I was beginning to think maybe this contest was rigged. I mean, Ben Affleck, for God's sake! I drove home and immediately called my agent.

"Jerry, you assured me this was my year," I said.

"Look, Ross, you know how these things work. You just don't have the projects that Jude has right now," said Jerry.

"What do you mean? I'm in Taproot III, available at finer Townshippers' Association offices everywhere."

"Yes but that doesn't quite have the same exposure as being in three major motion pictures simultaneously."

"But Taproot III is only $10, taxes included - the ideal Christmas gift."

"Yes, I know but"

"And I don't care how many projects he or Colin Farrell have on the go. Surely my sexiness is timeless, not tied to some single forgettable film. Mine is the classic sexiness of, say, a Ron Howard. It's"

"Ross," Jerry cut me off. "I have something to tell you." He paused and sighed. "Ross, you have no butt."

The room began to spin.

"We've done the surveys," Jerry continued. "Women 21-35 find your hairstyle delightfully unpretentious. Women 35-40 say your insistence on exclusively wearing blue jeans is boyishly charming. Women 45-50 wish they had your legs. Girls 13-18 find your absolute lack of muscle tone refreshingly non-threatening. The ladies at the Wales Home think you're dreamy. But you've got a tiny heiny, a negative nether region, no junk in the trunk."

"I - I see. I"

"Your rear's in arrears. You've got a bum like tenderized veal, a mushy tushy, a"

"All right! I get it. Listen, I gotta go."

And with that, my world fell apart. Turns out I'm not the victim of celebrity-obsessed culture. I simply had no butts about me. I thought back: There was that audition for the GQ suspenders-with-belts fashion spread. I thought I had nailed it but when I turned to leave the studio, a recall a gasp coming from the art director.

Then there was that party in the Hamptons. I had been talking with Paris and Sir Elton. When I walked away, they started to snicker. I thought they were chuckling at my joke about the priest and the weasel. Now I know they were laughing behind my backside.

But I'll show them. I'll show them all! I'm going to make myself an ass if it kills me. I'll sit in front of the computer for only seven hours straight instead of 12. I'll read all those Men's Health articles promising me Glorious Glutes in 10 Days. I might even exercise. And then I will be the Sexiest Man Alive! Unless, of course, Johnny Depp makes another stupid pirate movie.