Conan O’Brien Is The Weird Sex God Of My Hot Nightmares
Conan O’Brien is by the harbour! I blazed over, panting. He was no longer at the harbour! I George Michaeled it back, aching.
Now he’s in Redfern! Now he’s wearing a leather vest in the bush! Now… No. I was only in Hyde Park an hour ago. Now he’s there talking with common plebs to feature in his Netflix series. I could’ve been a pleb star! It could have been me propping up an Aussie stereotype!
Savagely minimising Instagram, wiping hot tears from my screen, I cursed the spiteful universe for keeping me from my ginger, flamingo-legged love.
I discovered the inexplicable freakish allure of Conan O’Brien about a year ago, wearing just my panties. I was in my tiny studio apartment, exercising with the two 1kg weights I lift with. It was hot and I was sweaty, hence the proximal nakedness. Lifting was the only form of exercise I undertook when I had a full-time job. Now I have no full-time job and a gym membership. I’m a 4kg strongwoman! Watch me struggle.
Anyway, I like to laugh and lift at the same time, because endorphins give me strength, exercise is boring af, and it means I can work my abs too. (Multitasking is a millennial gift.) My default for the last few months had been YouTubing Colbert – but he was getting on my nerves. I didn’t laugh at his kind of Christian-y satire and Trump impersonations, so much as I did pull back my lips and emit a soft, bitter ‘heeeh’. My abs were getting spongy.
His hair had the look of a carrot cake-flavoured sundae swirl, coiffed like Johnny Bravo with a hint of Munroe.
I hit up Team Coco. Shining with sweat, I beheld its leader. His hair had the look of a carrot cake-flavoured sundae swirl, coiffed like Johnny Bravo with a hint of Munroe. He had tiny, glacial eyes, full of crazed merriment, but also death. His white face jostled above a compact unit of a torso, from which erupted limbs so tremendously long, they seemed to require scaffolding. Translucently pale, under the studio lights he glowed.
I put my figurative straw of horniness to my quivering, engorged lips, plunged it into the aura of this Simpsons historied, Harvard-educated, longest-running late night comedy host, and inhaled. I had not realised how parched I was. How thirsty.
My weights hung limp from my tiny wrists.
I remain baffled by this thirst. His sidekick Andy Richter is more my type: big and friendly and cuddly. Show me a man who isn’t Very Generously Padded and I forget either of us have sexual organs.
But there’s just something about Conan O’Brien that does it for me. That maniacal energy. The thrilling possibility that anarchy could break out at any moment. The absurd tyranny of his make-believe Conan kingdom, where the abuse of staff is an ongoing gag. But cutest of all, there’s that loveable ease with which he laughs at others and himself.
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I wonder if @JordanSchlansky regrets coming to #Italy with me yet. #ConanItaly
It’s beautiful. It’s surreal. It’s hot.
He’s so fucking weird.
I imagine him astride the horse that David Letterman gave him, his fountain spray of hair impervious to any breeze. I fantasise about shoving aside the gorgeous bitch who greeted him at Sydney airport with a themed balloon, and nestling myself against his towering form instead. At the gym on my stationary bike, I smile as he yells intimately into my ears on Conan Needs A Friend, talking with all my favourite people, like Nick Offerman (about the eldritch qualities of wood) and David Sedaris (about the tumour that Sedaris fed to a snapping turtle).
Pair him with international jazz cat of bizarre sensual charm Jeff Goldblum, and I hardly know where to look.
Despite my best stalking efforts, I never did so much as catch the scent of whatever tonnage of hair gel Conan O’Brien uses to prop up his mop. When he visited us in February, it was the first time he’d ever toured Down Under. I missed his show at the State Theatre, where he savaged Sydney’s lockout laws, securing my devotion once and for all. I am afraid he will never return.
At least I’ll always have this.
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