Those who are longtime readers know that as Overlooked's resident hunkologist, I possess a keen and discerning eye for delectable man candy, both topical and vintage. However, this talent is a gift and can sometimes prove unreliable if the inspiration does not strike: hence my bout of writer's block last week. Well, I'm sad to report that the block has persisted, but instead of fighting it, let's embrace it.

This week, I propose that we embark on a new voyage: one of "Faded Glory" Hunks. Specimens who had it all, but for one reason or another, completely lost it and are still waiting to get it back ("But lengli," you interrupt, "Isn't that the case just about every week?" To you I say PIPE DOWN). Our first inductee is none other than early 90s icon and Surreal Life inhabitant Robert Van Winkle, better known to you and me as Vanilla Ice; and our first topic of discourse is:

Find the rest of the list after the jump!

So it begins....

As I was walking down the streets of New York--on what I thought was my bespoken path--there arose a small but surmountable fumble in my journey. As I looked further ahead, I saw that the obstruction took the form of two obnoxiously slow men...loiterers if you will. At this point I knew that, in order to continue on my merry journey, I would have to bypass them.

A strategy was already a-brewin'.

At first chance, I outflanked Big John--the right hand man--with a skillful L-turn; avoiding all obstacles, saving all time. But before I could rush away unscathed, I caught a snippet that drew my attention backwards. The pint-sized character now had my undivided attention--and just as I was about to dispose them from my memory!

Pint Size: "Does she know who I am, walkin' all fast; where she gotta go?".

Let me preface this next part by stating that I am a non-confrontational, non-judgmental type person, but in this situation, the sidewalk rage overtook me. These self-absorbed fools who did not even have the courtesy to move over were complaining about my pace? They were walking 20 mph below the speed limit! At this point I observed--to my delight--that the pint-sized one looked like Ja-Rule. Man, would he ever feel small when I put him in his place.

She's realer than he is, I'd wager

So it continued: I glared back icily and give my most "Oh no you did not" stare:

Me: "You know, if you would pull up your trousers a bit so's that your crotch isn't hanging at your ankles, then your legs would be able to have a stride of much bigger breadth. This would allow you and probably everyone around you to actually walk. Now I know that it can't be comfortable that 6 inches of material is trapped underneath your Nike--this must explain why your right leg drags more than RuPaul."

Ja and B.J.: *blank stare*

Me: "Excuse me, what is your name again?"

Ja and B.J.: *blank stare*

Me: "I am sorry, but before you answer I must interrupt, well because, I have to say that I DON'T GIVE A RAT'S ASS what your name is. See, I just turned down East 2nd, which means that I am on my street. I imagine that, judging from your attitude, you are spoiled and unaccustomed to people disrespecting you, or even *gasp* passing you without ogling your diamond encrusted dental crowns--which you would not need if you had any hygiene."

Ja and B.J.: *blank stare*

Me: "I'm sorry, did I confuse you with my hygiene remark? Well then, allow me to give you this analogical example: if you were flying your private jet and all of the sudden, Jay-Z and Timbaland started crowding your airspace, you would be pretty brassed off--chances are good that you would even call J-Lo to complain that it ain't real. So now that we're in my neighborhood, I'd like you to back that ass out of my airspace because this is my runway, and I'm ready for take-off."

After all was said and done, I looked back down the street and thought, "That would have gone nicely with my icy stare". And stepping into my apartment, I vowed that the next hip hop star to cross my path would certainly get it.

Ed. note: A big ShopWiki welcome to Danielle, our newest writer!

Don't make him be without you tonight!

Back when I was growing up, even though the neighborhood kids and I possessed hefty imaginations and lilting singing voices, all we had to document our travails were tape recorders and cumbersome video recording equipment. Thus, the only people who ever bore witness to our masterpieces were our parents, and even they were often disinterested.

However, thanks to the current golden age of the internet, true talent no longer is no longer squandered, and certainly not so for Pensacola's epically bespectacled Mark Gormley. These days, all you need to become a bona fide rock legend is some home recording equipment, a green sheet, the movie making software that ships with your computer, and a dream: with these simple items, you're free to create beautiful and expressive videos that can convey your spirit to the world. In my humble opinion, the world is exponentially better for this, and in particular, Gormley's majestic video entitled "Without You".

Remarkable?

Truly.

This might immediately expose me as an outsider to the world of paintballing, for the life of me, I cannot understand why someone would spend upwards of $100 on these horrifying things known as "ghillie suits." In the spirit of being completely slack-jawed and terrified, I would simply like to present...

Don't let him steal your heart away!

Against all odds, there is a new man in my life. I cannot believe it's true, but each moment spent with him is like another day in paradise!

I remember the day we first met. I was running late to court, ready to testify for a case involving a crime of passion (it's always important to hear both sides of the story, you know), when all of a sudden, two hearts collided.

Isn't it crazy how strangers like me and my love could just randomly cross paths one day? I was running one way and he was running another. Quick as I knew it, we ran into each other and I was knocked to the ground.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" he spluttered, bewilderment sullying his handsome face and showing me his true colors.

"Is that the least you can do?" I asked with a wink and indicated for him to help me up. He happily obliged, and I could tell by his eyes that he would find a way to my heart no matter what. Even though I was somewhat scared--just who was this angelic creature to whom I was already pledged all of my life?--I remember thinking, "That's just the way it is," and surrendering utterly. Separate lives were thereby linked forever.

After that first encounter, as we said hello, goodbye, he called over his shoulder to me, "Don't lose my number." (Do you remember, darling?) Perish the thought!

Since then, it's been nothing but magic. I just can't stop loving you, Phil Collins. Just can't stop loving you.

The Generation X of cleaning products

Taking inspiration from Renee's all-time favorite ShopWiki search, I was browsing through items labeled as "poop" this afternoon (some days are harder than others). While it's certainly true that there are a plethora of interesting poop products to be found, none intrigued me so much as the pet stain and odor remover shown at right.

Listen, I've owned pets: cats and dogs that defecate and vomit all over the place, and for no good reason other to embarrass their owner and make her look like a scumbag. Well done, pets, you get a treat. Oh, my hot date just stepped in a pool of warm urine? All in the name of seduction, friends. No, there's no time to clean that up: what, do you think I get all of these hot dates by spending time spraying and vacuuming? You were going to take your socks off anyway: problem solved.

But wait. It's precisely potty-mouthed lowlifes like me to whom the DogGone Poops, Oops, and Barf Stain Remover is marketed. You know the ad execs sitting around their big mahogany table were just itching to tap into that key under-30 demographic that is notoriously too lazy to clean house. "Dammit guys," one of them (Gil, most likely) exclaimed one day. "Cleaning can't be all about Martha Stewart and weirdo bald guys. We have to get ON THEIR LEVEL. Let's make it edgy."

With a previously unemployed tactic of vernacularization and hip-to-it-ism, Gil and company envisioned keggers and clean-up coexisting peacefully, generations of frat guys trotting out their hilariously-named all-natural spray just seconds after Rex, the house mascot, pukes all over the beer pong table after being fed too much canned bean dip. "Chill, man, it's ok," they would argue, "You go crank up the DMB. I got this."

Mission accomplished, bro. Mission accomplished.

You're so hot and cold with me!

Sure, sure, it'd be obvious to say Santa Claus or Hanukkah Harry is the biggest holiday hunk of them all, but that would just be too easy, not to mention an outright and dirty lie. Just because they get all the attention around this time of the year, this hardly qualifies them for this coveted title. That'd be like overlooking Michael Vartan just because Brad Pitt is in way more movies, has preposterous facial hair goals, and has an undead lady friend that pops out children at the speed of that wacko Arkansas Duggar family.

Way back before the Jonas Brothers ever came into being, there was a little TV special called The Year Without a Santa Claus, and the most important brothers in my life were the Miser Brothers: Heat Miser and Snow Miser.

Not only are they singing and dancing machines, but these characters are archetypal bad boys: veritable James Deans reincarnate (if he sang and danced, that is). Sure, they and their unpredictable weather patterns were put on this earth to make your life more complicated, but can you imagine a day without their dulcet tunes and impassioned gazes? A day in which your heart doesn't skip a beat from the sheer thrill of the thought of seeing them? A day in which you can't feel Heat Miser's woollen tufts of hair lightly brushing against your cheek, or Snow Miser's icicle-covered fingers caressing the small of your back (sometimes both at once!)?

Perish the thought! That's no life at all!

But don't take my word for it....

Misled, misled, misled

Asian guys, let's face it: Adam Quan is not a white woman. Adam Quan will never be a white woman. Why on earth would you shell out nearly 30 dollars on his advice on how to date a white woman? Sure, sure, he might think he's all studly and conquering, but asking one of your own for tips on landing a white chick is about as useful as asking a mime about trapeze technique. To date a white woman, you have to think like one.

Therefore, with this intent, I, a bona fide white woman, offer tips on nabbing yourself that white filly you've got your eye on. Follow these simple steps, and soon you'll be fighting them off tooth and nail.

Even the whitest women in the world will be powerless to your advances

1. Watch Gossip Girl. A LOT of it.
2. Go vegan.
3. Attend readings by David Sedaris or Sarah Vowell.
4. Surprise her with a cell phone covered in Swarovski crystals. Just because she claims to hate Paris Hilton (that slut!) doesn't mean that she secretly doesn't want to live like an heiress.
5. Bake cupcakes. Any kind will do, but if you really want to wow her, try red velvet.
6. Three words: Sephora Gift Card.
7. Take her to dim sum. There's a good chance she'll end up being the only white person there--how novel!
8. Begin sentences with "In my culture" wherever possible. Absolutely guaranteed to make her swoon.

Good luck! Not that you'll need it, of course.

One dream man, coming right up!

I know it's kind of a jerk move to dangle my new, awesome boyfriend in front of all of you like a carrot in front of a donkey with a beta carotene deficiency, but I just can't keep a love like this a secret. When Chris Dane Owens and I first locked eyes from across the crowded dining room at the Beverly Hills Benihana, I knew that my life would be forever changed, but I had no idea how profound that change would be. I know I've only known him for a week and two days, but to me it seems like nine weeks and five days. The first day seemed like a week and the second day seemed like five days. And the third day seemed like a week again and....

Anyway, where was I? Oh right. I want to spread the joy that Chris Dane Owens has brought me, and so I humbly present a guide on how to make your very own. Consider it an early holiday gift. Of course, he'll only be a fraction of the majesty that is my Chris Dane Owens, but the slightest piece of him is better than none of all, right?

1. Your Chris Dane Owens needs to feel at home when he's around you. Decorate your home in fantasy art and companion dragons to make sure he's comfortable.

2. Remember, your Chris Dane Owens is nothing without the stunning good looks of my Chris Dane Owens. While this can hardly be truly replicated, you can at the very least construct an elaborate artifice. Platinum blonde hair dye, ruby red lipstick, and a perfect five o' clock shadow are essential items, and unless you're on a budget, splurge on sapphire blue contact lenses. Rrowr!

3. Chainmail. Lots and lots of chainmail. But be sure to shave or wax your Chris Dane Owens' chest so his delicate, milky skin isn't imperiled.

4. Now, some people are not accustomed to bondage gear as daily wear, but trust me, if you want a Chris Dane Owens that is as true to life as the original, pop down to your local red light district and stock up on riding boots and gauntlets. Chris Dane Owens is never as cheery as when he is clad head to toe in soft leather.

5. A broadsword. (The sword is a metaphor.)

Follow these simple steps, and in no time at all, you'll have a Chris Dane Owens of your very own! I just know you'll have many wonderful and fulfilling years together.

(If there are further questions, consult "Shine On Me", a romance fantasy. Your heart will lead you from there.)

Why, yes, I am curious. What the hell is that smell?!

Britney Spears (or rather, her people) have been pushing a lot of merchandise lately. She's got a documentary, a new album, the covers of several magazines, and as we all remember from those innocent early 2000s, two perfumes: Fantasy and Curious. Though I've never sampled Fantasy myself, I have definitely borrowed some of my tween sister's Curious hand lotion in a pinch. My thoughts? That it's appropriate that Britney's new album is called "Circus" since she apparently smells like one--this stuff could only be described as "essence of cotton candy." Not that cotton candy smells bad. Quite the opposite. But though it does smell quite yummy, I will not purchase Britney's signature scent for three reasons:

Few people know that "Curious" is actually liquidized cake.

1. When I wear perfume, I want boys to feel lusty, not hungry.
2. Isn't a scent supposed to be indefinable? I don't want people to start guessing when I enter a room. "Omg, is somebody eating a Twinkie?" "No, sorry, that's my perfume."
3. I'm cheap.

That's right. I don't want to spend spend $50 on an aroma I could achieve by tucking a cookie down my bra. The good news is, you can solve a multitude of these problems with "Curious" by not buying it--and investing in these alternatives instead.

1. Opium. I don't think this smells anything like Curious, but I'll bet my bootlegged copy of Blackout that it's sexier.
2. Jessica Simpson's Dessert line. At least this way when you smell edible, you actually are. No false advertising!
3. Juice Bar. That's right, you can smell EXACTLY like something (no mystery here!) for a very low price. Seriously, a couple of bucks in a drug store. Cotton Candy, Gummi Bears--go nuts. Well, if they even make this stuff anymore. It's been a while since I was in junior high and now I'm not sure.

Anyway, here's to you, Britney, and your lowest common denominator products! Teenaged girls and middle class cougars alike will love you for it.