Not in the regular way, of course, but in the, I might totally put a poster of him over my bed and kiss it goodnight once in a while as I ride to dreamland on sweet thoughts of economic freedom in a terrible haircut. Granted, I wouldn’t want to marry him or something. But I would totally want Paul Ryan to live in my house and, like, do laundry or something and when commanded, lecture me on comparative economic policy.
Because that’s f***ing hot.
And what’s hotter? On weekends, he stands wet and shirtless in large rivers fishing for giant catfish with his hands.
For fun, Mr. Ryan noodles catfish, catching them barehanded with a fist down their throats…
With marriage came a rural ranch where Mr. Ryan and his in-laws wade into Lake Texoma, reach into holes and wrestle catfish — a sport that appears to be attaining mythic dimensions in Ryan World.
“They come up on your hand, and you just squeeze wherever you are in that fish and pull it out,” he said with a shrug, bragging about the 40-pounder he landed two seasons ago. “I know it sounds a little crazy, but it’s really exhilarating.”