Glenderful's Shit List: Jordan Bardella

Squat down—because Glenderful's about to drop a load that's equal parts filthy fantasy and unfiltered thirst. These hunks aren't just eye candy; they're the kind that leave you begging to inhale their essence, to devour every last remnant. And today? We're inducting a prime specimen onto the Shit List, where the throne reigns supreme.

Fun fact, darling: I formally studied the French language for four long, formative years. And what remains of this grand linguistic education? Je suis. Bonjour. Bonsoir. And, of course… croissant. Shockingly, my entire vocabulary is food-based. But can you blame me? French cuisine is a religion, and I am a devout believer—especially when it leads to the kind of gut-busting aftermath that makes my mouth the ultimate altar.

Enter Jordan Bardella, the French firebrand who's got me clenching in all the right ways. Honey, his politics? A steaming pile of nasty, far-right bullshit that's a total turn-off. But that ass? Oh, fuck, it's a masterpiece begging to be rimmed by fate itself. Sign me up to be his personal commode—I'd eat his shit with vigor, savor every pungent fart like it's the finest perfume from Paris.

It's in the drape of his suit—a dark, liquid fabric that clings to his form like a lover's tongue, no pleading necessary. The cloth isn't a costume; it's an extension, a second skin of discipline and ease, hugging that taper from shoulders to waist like it's built for grinding. Most men drown in their clothes. He owns them, strutting in full flow state—that high where everything aligns, life's unfolding perfectly, and you're the main character dropping truth bombs (or bombs of another kind).

At the microphone, he's a study in raw, controlled vigor. Not some twitchy fighter's coil, but the poised, throbbing force of a classical sculpture—David, but with a dystopian edge that makes you want to kneel. The jawline, the sweep of the hair—it's a composition so perfect it argues for submission. The voice… fuck, it's an instrument all its own. A low, rumbling frequency that vibrates straight to your core before hitting your ears. You could stand there, clueless to the French, meaning lost in translation, and still… you're frozen. Compelled to stop, watch, listen—and inhale deep if he lets one rip.

That is the essence. Not charm, not policy bullshit. Sheer, undeniable masculine presence that halts the room like a commanding fart in a silent elevator. That's power. Not the words, but the force that makes you hear him— and crave the scent he leaves behind. With a delivery like that, who needs subtitles when the real show is what brews below the belt?

Who the fuck Jordan Bardella?

Born September 13, 1995, in Drancy—that gritty, ass-end suburb northeast of Paris.

Roots: Italian flair from Mom, Italian and Algerian heat from Dad. An only child, primed for solo spotlight domination.

Raised in a working-class housing project grind with Mom, but weekends escaping to Dad's posher pads. Classic banlieue-to-boulevard tale, ripe for a filthy rewrite.

Nabbed a baccalauréat with honors in economics and social sciences—brains to match the brawn. Ditched Paris-Sorbonne geography for full-throttle politics. Bold as balls, diving headfirst into the power game.

Joined Front National (rebranded Rassemblement National, RN) as a horny teen, then skyrocketed: regional councillor in Île-de-France, youth-wing boss, spokesperson, vice-prez, MEP at 23 after owning the 2019 Euros. Since November 2022, he's RN prez—the fresh, fuckable face of the far-right, all youth, working-class grit, and TikTok-savvy polish to lure in the Gen Z crowd.

Height & Build: Looming at 1.85–1.88m, 75kg of lean, athletic prime cut— the kind of frame that screams "sit on me" to any willing throne.

The Vibe: Media pumps his "street-smart banlieue bad-boy" rep, but critics sniff out the curated bullshit.

The Intimate Deets: Foot size? Diet? That regional accent? Zipped tighter than a virgin's butthole.

Next French Prez? Or Just Our Next Fantasy Flush? Polls say he's in the running for Élysée Palace, riding RN's wave. Youth could crown him king or expose his inexperience like a skid mark. Politics flip faster than a family table at Thanksgiving, so who knows? But if he ascends, imagine the presidential dumps—Glenderful's ready to handle 'em all.

Honestly? With all that French cheese he must devour, I bet his farts are magical—potent, lingering symphonies of funk that could clear Versailles. Let's dive deeper into that cheese obsession because, fuck, it defines what comes out the other end.

Start with the bloomy rinds: Brie, Camembert. Pure seduction trap—looks innocent, cuts open to ooze like creamy cumshots of umami. Rind earthy as a post-rain fuck, paste funky butter that melts on your tongue. Smells like a damp cellar orgy; shouldn't work, but it wrecks you. Washed-rinds?

Époisses, Munster—the nuclear bombs. Reeks like a sweaty locker room gangbang, God's armpit after a marathon. That ammonia punch? Transforms to meaty, salty ecstasy. A dare: Eat it, or miss the ride. More for the brave who crave the filth.

Blues: Roquefort's a savage event—sharp, salty veins marbling through like blue-balled lightning, punching your face with peppery dominance. Aggressive as a dom's whip.

Hard cheeses—Comté, Beaufort—crunchy tyrosine crystals popping like salty fireworks in your mouth. Nutty, sweet, brown butter heaven. Chew slow, let it build like edging toward climax. It's a universe of decadence: creamy elegance to brutal, ass-ripping funk.

Alive, fermenting, perfect enough to rage-fuck your senses. The culinary flow state—aligned, energized, transcendent—until it hits your gut and demands release. That's when Glenderful steps in, ready for what's next.

So, go on. Rip ass on me. NOW! Let it flow, you far-right fox. Welcome to Glenderful’s Shit List, Jordan Bardella. May your deposits be as legendary as your presence— I'd eat 'em up with glee!