OK, here’s the intellectual debate of the week: Could Ashton Kutcher and I get married? Or, like, not?

Let’s give fair consideration to both sides of the issue. People who say “not” tend to be narrow-minded bourgeois brown-nosing whores with root canals and fungus. Their “reasoning” falls along the morally questionable lines of, “Ashton Kutcher is an asshole with a cruel sense of humor,” or “Ashton Kutcher has the intellectual curiosity and capacity of a bar of soap.”

These people not only have skin diseases, they also are wrong. I did some intense archival research on www.imdb.com and discovered that, in fact, Ashton Kutcher graduated from college. Yes, that’s right, COLLEGE. Do stupid assholes go to college? CLEARLY NOT. Furthermore, he got his college degree in biochemical engineering. A scientist. WOW.

Now, I do not claim to know what biochemical engineering is. I don’t even claim that it means something other than “eugenics.” But whatever—these are petty concerns. Would you refuse to marry someone just because he may have nefarious plans to breed the entire planet to be as pretty as him? No! You would marry him, and then you would breed with him, because by God you need to support science in all its many incarnations.

I am going to share a little secret with you: I have a weakness for hot people. I know this is shocking. But, seriously, I will cut hot people a ton of slack. Like, imagine if a normal person tried to create a show like Punk’d. Here is what I would say to him:

“Why are you so mean to people all the time? It makes me cry. That time you made Beyoncé think she killed Christmas? That wasn’t funny. Poor Beyoncé. Also, what does ‘punk’d’ mean? Does it mean, like, ‘punked’? That is still not a thing. You are such a fuck.”

Here is what I say to Ashton Kutcher: “Hehehe… That’s a cute baseball cap.” I don’t even like baseball caps.

Sometimes you can see me walking around campus with a vacant expression on my face. This is because my mind is busy imagining a scenario in which I happen to run into some famous hot person who’s on our campus. It doesn’t have to be Ashton Kutcher. It could be any one of a number of attractive celebrities.

In my imagination, I play it cool. I see the famous hot person and give him one of my classic polished smiles. He comes over and tries to impress me with his fame and hotness. But I am way too suave for his little games. He asks if he can hang out with me because I seem so down to earth. His fame is such a trial, he tells me. He needs to get back in touch with real people, like me.

In my imagination, I am a paragon of reality.

So Famous Hot Person and I chill, and he is charmed by my charisma and compassion (Maybe? Maybe he is charmed by different adjectives of mine. Like my suaveness. I’m not sure “charisma” and “compassion” are really forerunners among my characteristics.) Eventually he must go, probably back to Hollywood or something, and I tell him that I cannot come along, for I have a life here. He is sad, but wiser for our time spent together, and he understands.

OK, so, here is how it actually goes when I meet Famous Hot Person: This has never happened in life.

Come on. Famous Hot People? At the U of C? I mean, yes, there are those 28 billion Nobel Prize winners. So, famous, sure. But they are not hot. Actually, I guess they might be. I have never seen them.

But I am undeterred from my point here! My point is: next time I see Ashton Kutcher wandering around campus, he is going to fall in love with me. Why does Ashton never “punk” Nobel Prize-winners?