Like Aristotle's third element of truth, Logos, these pictures of Alessandra Ambrosio are all the logical proof I need to know that my loins are actually on fire. I expect, within the hour, to get a comment on my blog from Chris Bostain that says, "Like I've said many times before, I would cash it all in for this girl." Well, Chris, I couldn't agree more. There's hardly anything left to say about a woman this seemingly perfect. All I can convince myself is that somewhere her husband bitches to all his friends about how much she nags, how bad she is in the sack, and how she never lets him watch the game with the boys or play golf. Honestly, she could staple my frank and beans to the bed sheets every night and slap me across the face with a boat paddle and I would still wake up thinking about how romantic she was. Alessandra Ambrosio is a model because somewhere in some Brazilian or Argentine genetic laboratory, smart people with funny accents and brown skin created perfection. There's literally not one job on the face of the Earth that she could do better than this one.
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