Close your eyes and imagine the woman who would, eyes wide open, enter into a canoodling arrangement with hothead/sexist/homophobe/anti-Semite (oh and actor/director) Mel Gibson. Wait. Maybe you shouldn’t close your eyes. You never know when Mel Gibson is right around the corner.
Okay, still: what woman is bold enough to risk the wrath of Arthur Aramaic? Who among you could stomach watching Braveheart every Saturday night? Do you know any woman willing to never again LOOK at a kosher dill or potato pancake? And what if Mel Gibson decides to—oh, I don’t know —GO BATSHIT CRAZY ON YOU, VERBALLY OR OTHERWISE? What kind of woman (or man or pet hamster) is comfortable with that risk?
How about a woman who jumps from moving cars and gets paid to set herself on fire? Yes. A badass stuntwoman could date Mel Gibson. Enter Ashley Cusato, brown belt in karate, yellow belt in mate-choosing, and official Hollywood stuntwoman. She and Mel Gibson have been dating for a month and, by all reports, he has yet to leave her shrieking, threatening voicemails. Must be love.
Okay, readers, I was about to launch into a big “What is Ashley Cusato thinking?” paragraph. But then I re-read my article so far and even I was struck by the misogyny of the argument. Why should I question Ashley Cusato’s mating habits? Why not question Mel Gibson for being (or at least doing one helluva job acting like) a terrible human being and still thinking he’s in a good place to date? Where on Earth does Mel Gibson even locate potential partners? OKAryan?
And more importantly, where are the people who purportedly care about Mel Gibson? Surely, there’s someone—Jodie Foster, maybe?—who could gently suggest that maybe Mel should take a year or nine off dating and get himself straight. Maybe they could suggest he take up arts and crafts, get a little (!) therapy, invest a few months in writing a self-help book (How To Tell the Asshole in Your Life He Needs Some “Me” Time). Just. Don’t. Date. Right. Now.
Seriously, Mel, let your awfulness of the past few years break your stride. Let it ruin your social life for awhile. If you don’t take some time away from the rest of humanity, you do nothing to bolster your occasional offhand claims that, “That awful man screaming into the telephone, calling a female detective sugar tits, and threatening to behead people,” wasn’t the real you.
And as for you, Ashley, I will say only this: don’t let your tuck-and-roll-from-a-moving-car-driven-by-a-madman skills get rusty. Just sayin’.