Glenderful's Shit List: Jayson Tatum

Let’s keep it all the way real. Glenderful’s Shit List isn’t about ranking hotties—it’s about honoring main character energy. The kind of presence so magnetic it shuts off the noise in your head with one look. No words needed. You just feel it.

And Jayson Tatum? He’s not just on the list. He is the list.

St. Louis born. Chaminade to Duke. Drafted third by Boston—and he said, Bet. Since then? All-Star. All-NBA First Team. The man ended a championship drought and carved his name into Celtics history, dropping 51 in a Game 7 and breaking Larry Bird’s playoff scoring record like it was nothing. 2024 was his year: villain origin story and hero’s arc in one. He clutched the chip, dominated in the fourth, and redefined killer instinct in green and white.

When Tatum steps on the court, it’s not just basketball—it’s theater. Prophecy. Mania in motion.

Now let’s talk about his feet. Size 15.

Not shoes. Pontoons. The kind that could eclipse your whole face if you’re lucky enough to be in the splash zone. Broad, veined, grounded like ancient redwoods—but quick. You wanna see them bare, toes spread, arch lifted so high it makes you believe in giants again.

These aren’t feet. They’re a love language.

And the man attached? 6'8" of walking art. He moves like a final boss you’d happily let win. Shorts clinging to an ass so sculpted, Newton and Da Vinci would take notes. It’s not just an asset—it’s architecture.

His game? Violence meets ballet. The crossover, the fadeaway—it’s art, but make it dangerous. You’re not just watching basketball. You’re watching your kinks earn a PhD.

And the ass? Fuck—it looks so filthy good it’d make a monk rip off his robes and dive in face-first. Those white and green shorts, embroidered with shamrocks like a sacred tease, cling like a wicked invitation—dares you to crack that luck-of-the-Irish veil wide open with unapologetic force. This isn’t just dessert; it’s a whole damn main course, a celebration of sin wrapped in Celtics pride, leaving no doubt who owns the court and who owns the craving.

Off the court, the rizz doesn’t stop. Ultimate sneakerhead. Devoted dad to Deuce. Left Popeyes behind for clean eating and peak performance—discipline as sexy as the physique.

But it’s the heart that seals the deal. His foundation pours seven figures into helping single-parent families build generational wealth. Mentoring youth, speaking out on justice, showing up for his community—not for PR, but for purpose.

Recap: looks that end lives, talent that rewrites history, and a heart that raises the bar. Jayson Tatum isn’t a snack—he’s a whole meal. A walking, talking chocolate bar you’d risk it all to taste.

Jayson, the throne is yours. Welcome to the Shit List. Glenderful: Built for main characters.Flights to Boston? Already checking.