I'm developing an idea that Matthew McConaughey is a kind of anti-Christ. I'm 35% to 40% serious. He may not be the Satanic emissary of our times, but I honestly believe if and when the real devil rises up from those sulfur caverns and begins to walk the earth, he'll look and behave exactly like McConaughey.
He's not just the absolute nadir of empty-vessel pretty boy actors. I'm talking about an almost startling inner quality that transcends mere shallowness. It's there in McConaughey's eyes . . . eyes that look out at the wonder and terror of life but do nothing but scan for opportunity . . . something or someone to hustle or seduce or make a buck off. Eyes that convey a Maynard G. Krebs-like revulsion at the idea that life may finally be about something you can't touch, taste or own.
He has the soul of a Texas bartender who dabbles in real estate and has an overly made-up and undereducated girlfriend who drops by at the end of a shift to give him a lift home, except that he tends to ignore her when there's a good game on and all his empty-ass buddies are there . . . a bartender who will clean shot glasses for 20 minutes before looking in your direction . . . a guy with a thin voice and a hey-buddy Texas drawl who sorta kinda needs to be stabbed with a screwdriver.
And from there, Wells says what he really thinks.
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