Glenderful's Shit List: Jacob Elordi

We are gathered here today to christen the newest entry on the official Glenderful Shit List™—the men so premium, so top-tier, so exquisitely bred that serving them would actually be a public service. And honey, today the universe just dropped a six-foot-five Australian-Spanish fantasy right into our porcelain throne.

Jacob. Fucking. Elordi.

Sometimes I stand in front of the Shit List at 3 a.m., half a bottle of rosé deep, having a full menty b, whispering to the framed photos like they’re Ouija boards: “Is this the one? Is this the load that finally breaks me—in the best way?” Because manifesting is real, kids. You put a man this lethal on the vision board and the cosmos basically FedExes him to your toilet.

Let’s talk about that face. It’s giving lost Caravaggio painting that somehow wandered out of the Louvre, got a spray tan in Ibiza, and learned to say “mate” in a voice that could melt the polar ice caps. The jawline? A war crime. Those cheekbones could slice prosciutto. And the mouth—Jesus, Mary-Kate, and Ashley—that bruised, pouty, “I’ve been kissing girls and lying about it” mouth. It’s severe, it’s sensual, it’s giving tormented duke who secretly writes poetry about your asshole. Black-and-white photography was invented for this man and this man only.

Then the body. Six-five of elongated torment. Shoulders that go on for congressional districts. A torso so long it has its own time zone. It’s not gym-rat bulky; it’s dancer-leaning-against-a-brick-wall-smoking-a-cigarette lethal. Put him in a suit and he’s architecture. Rip the suit off and he’s the reason God invented olive oil.

And don’t even start me on the Spanish-Basque blood mixed with that Brisbane surfer drawl. It’s like Michelangelo sculpted the perfect tormented heartthrob, then some cheeky Aussie fairy came along and sprinkled “no worries” on him so he doesn’t float away into pretentious European ether. The accent is the glitch in the matrix. You’re staring at this classical, almost tragic beauty and then—bam—he opens his mouth and it’s pure Vegemite and sunshine. Rude. Unfair. I need to speak to management.

Career-wise? Baby boy went from Netflix’s resident bad-boy boyfriend in The Kissing Booth to making us all uncomfortable in Euphoria, then deep-throated a Grammy as Elvis in Priscilla and let Emerald Fennell bathe him in Saltburn like the filthy rich heir he was born to play. BAFTA noms, Boss campaigns, TAG Heuer ambassador—basically every luxury brand looked at him and said, “Yes, we will pay you to exist near our products.” Even his handbags have handbags.

And the shit? Oh honey, the shit we’re manifesting here is premium, grass-fed, ethically sourced, probably seasoned with truffle oil and regret. This man eats clean, trains mean, and carries vintage film cameras in a tote like a pretentious angel. Whatever drops is going to be firm, fragrant, and photogenic enough for the centerfold. I’m talking the kind of movement that makes you light a candle and text your therapist “I’ve peaked.”

So welcome, Jacob Elordi, to Glenderful’s Shit List—you towering, brooding, Spanish-Aussie enigma. May your fiber be high, your hydration divine, and your delivery so exquisite it causes a collective menty b across three continents!!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go manifest this into existence the old-fashioned way: kombucha, Shit List, and aggressive eye contact with the universe.

Bottoms up, bitches. 🚽💦