Glenderful's Shit List: Roman Josi

I'm choosing optimism like it's my daily probiotic—curating hope, manifesting vibes into existence, because what else is a faggot to do in this dumpster fire of a world? But then the universe—or, let's be real, that orange administration—serves up a "challenge" on day THREE of 2026: Trump pulling an international kidnapping stunt from Venezuela, snatching a head of state and his wife like it's a bad reboot of House of Cards gone straight to Freevee.

It's chaotic neutral energy, main character syndrome at its trashiest, and darlings, the drama is unasked for, uncalled for, and frankly giving me the Gen Z stare—that blank, soul-piercing nothingness, where annoyed zoomers just hit you with dead eyes instead of words, like in retail hell when a Karen demands the manager. Yeah, 2026's already a whole narrative, but screw that—I'm retreating to my sacred Shit List, my textured manifestation board, my vibrational slay space. It's the mood I need, not this geopolitical flop.

And without further tea... the latest entry making my list fart: Roman Josi!

This hunk is camera catnip: carved jaw geometry, alpine cheekbones softened by those dark, intelligent eyes that could give you the Gen Z stare if you crossed him wrong. On ice, helmet and pads frame him like silver on a black-and-white print, sharpening contrasts, making violence poetic. His rugged glide? Controlled force, no brute flailing—just thighs and spine calculating angles, owning 26 minutes like one unbroken flex. Defenseman by title, but a tension masterpiece: shoulders ready yet chill, head high, posture screaming captain energy that draws followers like moths to flame.

His masculinity? Steady, dangerous quiet—not cartoon loud, but the composure to absorb hits, retaliate slick, then strut off in a dark coat, hair on point, European elegance turning locker rooms runway. Hands that cannon pucks slip into tailored pockets no sweat; toughness and refinement coexist like my love for rough trade and silk sheets. Watching him rush end-to-end? Every frame focused, no waste—just Swiss precision bending the game around his beautiful, disciplined brutality. He's the man's man I worship: unafraid of collision, a subject who owns the lens.

Born June 1, 1990, in Bern, Switzerland—medieval vibes over NHL rinks—Josi honed skating, vision, puck magic on Euro ice before Nashville drafted him 38th in 2008. Evolved from smooth mover to elite complete

D-man: 2020 Norris Trophy, First Team All-Stars, Preds captain, franchise scoring leader for blue-liners.

Internationally? Swiss cornerstone—2018 Olympic silver, World Champs medals, elevating Switzerland's rep. Off-ice? No bad boy scandals—just restrained edge between boards, quiet intensity teammates call relentless.

Lifestyle: Disciplined nutrition, performance fuel with Euro moderation—no fads, just balanced slays. Foot size? Mystery meat, internet's wet dream unanswered.

Downtime: Guitar-strumming creative, multilingual (German, English), thoughtful humor over flash.

In short: Quiet excellence from Bern to NHL stardom—leader sans theatrics, mystique from control, not chaos. The star you gag over for consistency alone.

How to devour Roman's shit? Swiss fondue style, bitches—elegant, communal cheese dip turned filthy war zone. We're talking thick, coiled, brutally honest logs from this defenseman daddy. Skewer that bastard and plunge into the cheese fondue: acidic, wine-laced Emmentaler-Gruyère emulsion contaminated with pure funk—purity meets punch, BAM, delicious chaos. Don't stop—drag that cheese-slathered mess through cornichons, those sour gherkin swords slicing fat like samurais: CRUNCH, SOUR, FUNK riot. Pop a pickled pearl onion—sweet-tart bomb exploding, folding into the mess like the hottest forbidden hot dog.

Need texture? Cradle it in crusty bread, soaking runoff for carb armor against this umami train. Mash onto boiled potatoes—starchy sponges mellowing the hurricane eye. This ain't dipping; it's rebellion, injecting pristine Swiss tradition with unapologetic id. Messy, wrong, glorious—piss off purists? Good, more for this greedy faggot. Eat before cheese seizes.

Roman Josi, welcome to Glenderful’s Shit List!