The McGill Tribune is excited to introduce guest columnist Gino Adamson, A&E editor Dylan’s recently retired uncle. His interests include going to the movies, being naked longer than comfortable in gym locker rooms, large khaki pants, hanging out at the barber shop, and hitting on young waitresses. Following a particularly inflammatory family dinner appearance, Gino signed up for an account with twitter.com. Though his Logan Paul op-ed was too explicit to publish, he’s here today to give us two cents on Call Me By Your Name superstar Timothée Chalamet.
So I heard about this kid the other day. Real big-shot, “it boy”-type kid. Name’s “Timothée Chalamet.” For real, that’s his name. With the accent ‘eh-goo’ and everything. Sounds more like a bottle of vino than a man. Like some perfume my wife would wear or something. So anyways, I was on the Twitters, just scrolling the tweets, and I come across this flippy haired, dreamboaty little twerp. And all the girlies just love him. He’s Timberlake, he’s Patterson—or whatshisname—that vampire creep, he’s Eddy Norton, the girlies just can’t get enough of him. They tweet out their little heart eyes and the hashtag “baes”, it’s enough to make you hurl. So I get on the Google, I’m looking him up—turns out the kid’s in everything these days. I watch some interviews. Kid’s on Kimmel, he’s on Ellen, talking about some chick flicky Kiss Me By His Name or Tweety Bird. I wanna know—which one’s he playing, the tweety or the bird? And I haven’t said nothing about the gays, mind you. But the kid’s a pipsqueak, I’m not even kidding around. “Lil Timmy,” I call him. “Timmy Two-Pounds.” He’s wearing these all-white suits at these fancy award shows, give me a break. My five-year-old niece could whoop this kid’s ass. I tell you, if any daughter of mine ever brought this punk home for dinner, I’d have him out the door before you can say Al Pacino.
So anyways, and I’ll have my nephew put the YouTube in, I’m watching Toys ‘R Us Timmy on the Ellen DeGeneres TV show—I love her, by the way, very funny woman, which is something you don’t often see—and Timmy’s got the wavy hair coming down over his eyes, he’s wearing his little skinny pants, acting like a regular mooch. He’s all nervous and fidgety, but he has this way of speaking that makes you feel less nervous when you’re watching him talk. He’s joking around with his big buddy there, that Winkelvoss weirdo, they’re telling their funny stories from the movies. You can practically feel everyone in the room falling in love with the kid. There’s this one part—Ellen, God love her, plays this embarrassing clip of Tiny Timmy when he was a kid—and you see Timmy on the show rubbing his face in his hands and acting all shy, his hair’s falling all over his face, and I could just die. I mean. I could just. I could. He’s so beauti—. I could die because he’s such a pipsqueak. What am I saying? You think you’re better than me, kid? You think you’re some kind of Hollywood bigshot? Come around to my neighbourhood sometime punk, I’ll show you bigshot. Kids these days—I tell you—they have no respect. None.