Glenderful's Shit List: Jon Hamm
- Glen Loveland
- Dec 28, 2025
- 3 min read
I'm this close to crashing out over the state of men today. Like, full emotional breakdown, throwing all care out the window, screaming at the sky because where the FUCK are the REAL MEN?
The ones who smell like tobacco, leather, and good cologne—not some TikTok twink who marinated in Axe body spray and incel Reddit threads. The ones who walk into a room shoulders back, head high, owning every inch of space without apologizing for existing like some therapy-speak casualty. Tailored suits that hug the body like a possessive lover, pressed to perfection, no saggy-ass athleisure pretending to be fashion. Polished shoes that click like dominance incarnate, an Old Fashioned sipped slow and sexy, gravel in the voice, steel in the spine, rough edges that make you wanna get cut.
But noooo, we're stuck in this beige apocalypse of boys playing dress-up, terrified of offending anyone, neutered by cancel culture and "let me unpack that" energy, shuffling around like they're sorry for having a dick. I'm crashing out just thinking about it—frustration boiling over, ready to have a full-blown outburst because whatever happened to backbone? To fire? To a man who knows what he wants and takes it unapologetically?
And then... thank the faggot gods... Jon Hamm struts back into my life like the answer to every thirsty prayer I've whispered into the void.
I caught him recently in Landman serving oil baron realness (hard hat, swagger, ethical ambiguity—chef's kiss) and Your Friends & Neighbors being a morally gray hedge-fund daddy who robs his rich friends (ICONIC), but let's be real, the blueprint was always Mad Men.
Don Draper? Bitch, that severe line from the nape of the neck down the spine to the perfect trouser break over those gleaming Oxfords—it's geometric perfection, black-and-white photography come to life. The wool nips the waist, confesses the muscular ass (yes, bulging, undeniable, making the fabric sin), cufflinks glinting like cold threats, and then—gag—the bare feet reveal. Large, primal, fragrant. The statue has a foundation that's raw animal.
Hamm moves like a composition demanding worship, casting a shadow you wanna live in.
Ugh, honestly? Don Draper eating is the show's secret climax. Every time. It's not a meal—it's a morality play in a mouthful. All that mid-century American stuff—the burgers, the oysters, the Old Fashioneds—it's not food, it's QUALITY. It's CONSUMPTION AS CHARACTER.
I just... I see it, you know? The chew. The jaw working like a piston of pure id. I follow it all the way down. The digestion becomes this... glorious internal montage of power and regret. It's an opera in his esophagus. And the aftermath—that slight, masculine haze behind the eyes? That's the real product being sold. Not the steak, but the feeling of having eaten the steak.
It's so visceral. So primal. In a world of whispered conversations and layered lies, watching him devour is the most honest thing he does. It's the animal beneath the suit.
So yes, chew, Don, CHEW!!!
Born in St. Louis, that Midwestern grind with dry humor and effortless confidence—Hamm taught drama class before Hollywood noticed (a teacher! the layers!), hosted SNL slaying comedy like a pro, Cardinals superfan, universally beloved (a miracle in that viper pit), got healthy with sobriety and real food (burgers, barbecue, no fads).
And American food? Don't come for it unless you're ready to convert. Most of it's garbage, yeah—underseasoned, lazy, deep-fried depression—but when it's done right? Fuck. A charred burger with melty cheese dripping, ribs falling off the bone, steak kissed by fire and salt, S'mores torched just right, chocolate malt from a greasy spoon. Honest, unapologetic, hits like nostalgia and cum.
I'd take that over some fussy Euro foam plate any day. Hamm was weaned on this—he personifies it. I'm picturing a brownie version of his shit: Like a brownie planet on a plate. That first bite… my teeth would cut through the icing—like a crust, like a chocolate lake that froze over—and then into this… this darkness. Like a spongy mattress made of cocoa. Probably deep and a little bit bitter, but then the sweet icing would hit your tongue and it must be like a fudge waterfall trying to wash it all down. No trendy bullshit with Hamm's deuces and my face would be covered, no tanning booth needed that week! Saving $? Score!
Welcome to Glenderful's Shit List, Jon Hamm—you absolute specimen. You're the antidote to the beige boy epidemic. You're proof that masculinity doesn't have to be toxic—it can just be tailored, polished, and unapologetically present.
