Glenderful's Shit List: Mo Salah

It's settled science that homosexuality is not learned behavior—unlike our hetero peers who absorb sexual positions through some magical cultural osmosis, a faggot's role remains delightfully opaque until you dive in headfirst. And honey, the only way to clock it is through your own fact-finding mission. First-hand experience? Highly suggested. Try everything, fail fabulously, and remember: it's all about acknowledging the clever observations along the way, like "I see what you're doing there" with a wink. With that spirit, the next thing I'm dying to devour is my latest addition to the Shit List... Mo Salah!

This Pharaoh hails from Nagrig, Egypt—a tiny village that birthed a global football demigod at just 32. The résumé? A chandelier dripping with shine: multiple Premier League Golden Boots, Champions League winner, Club World Cup champ, African Footballer of the Year (twice!), and shattering Liverpool records like he's collecting hearts. And let's clock those details: rocking a U.S. men's shoe size around 10–11, pure "I score 30 goals a season" energy that screams dominance.

Off the pitch, he's a vibe curator: obsessed with workouts that sculpt that body, family hangs that melt your cynicism, beach vacays where he glows like a desert sun, and social media drops that are basically free therapy for our feeds. Diet? Clean and disciplined, with that Middle Eastern boy-next-door charm—lean proteins, fresh veggies, and indulging in kushari when he needs that carb hug. He's the anti-diva athlete, which just makes him hotter, like a forbidden fruit you can't resist.

Mo Salah’s body isn’t athleticism—it’s a metaphysical argument against every soft, un-sculpted man on earth. Watching him run is like seeing geometry cheat, a vector of pure intention cutting through the chaos, and when his foot meets the ball, it’s not a kick, it’s a violent marriage of will and leather—and God, I want to be that ball, just once, to know what it’s like to be perfectly struck by destiny. And the shorts… please, they’re not fabric, they’re a frame for a Renaissance sculpture of power, each glute a taut globe of kinetic potential, shifting with the precision of a god who also does weighted hip thrusts. It’s art. It’s obscene. It’s the same energy as Egyptian food—which, let’s be real, is just edible dominance.

Because of course his people eat like that. Can you even imagine Mo's shit?!?! It’s a 5,000-year-old flavor bombardment designed to humble your soul and ruin all other food. The charcoal-kissed kofta isn’t grilled—it’s seduced by fire. The molokhia isn’t soup, it’s a slimy, garlicky conspiracy that feels illegal in the best way. And koshari? That glorious pile of carb-on-carb chaos, drowned in spicy tomato vinegar, is the culinary equivalent of Mo Salah cutting through three defenders—it shouldn’t work, but it does, perfectly, leaving you breathless and changed.

Welcome to Glenderful's Shit List, Mo Salah! You magnificent, delicious Pharaoh of the pitch. We see you. We taste you. We’re not worthy.