Crawley McNugget is a quasi-pint-size playboy in the fickle and lust-filled town of Hell-Ay, even though he may not look the part
. Like, at all. Regardless, Crawley's somewhat public womanizing track record shows he's gotten to bed many notorious (for nothing) ladies even though scores of coke-snorting bystanders manage to marvel at McNugget's success—through the haze of blow-filled highs, no less.
But look, the really ridic thing about the dude is that his real-life sex manners are not at all like the nice TV character he plays. Here's how:
As one would suspect of his unimaginative type, Crawly frequents the Hollywood club scene, a lot of the time with other famous pals, looking to score some ass. And he does too, tons. C.M. takes the babes back to his Hills home with the assumption that they're sure gonna do the dirty, and most of the time they sure do. Jeez, you straight chicks can be as easy as us gay slutty ones, I swear! I digress.
But for any gal who prefers to just fool around without closing the deal, be prepared for McNugget to scream louder than a Desperate Housewife with bad lighting. “Get out, then!” he will squeal with high-pitched yelping not dissimilar from the zealous Chihuahua he resembles. He then calls a cab for the discarded dame.
Gentlemanly? Hardly. Why, the last babe who got kicked to the curb dished to us that when the cabbie picked her up, the driver snarked, “What is this place?” She proceeded to tell him the name of the nonlikely hunk that lived there. “I'm here nightly,” the cabby said. “Sometimes a couple times a night.”
Guess you get cab fare whether you seal the deal or not. One thing's for certain: You don't get to spend the night. Ever. Why? Because the last honey Crawley tried to make it work with burned him for life. No joke. Life. Now, he treats his women as badly as she did him.
And It Ain't: John Mayer, Matt Dillon, Verne Troyer