People Magazine has named delicious Australian actor Hugh Jackman 2008’s Sexiest Man alive. They say

He’s a triple threat: a star who can sing, dance and wield a weapon. At 6 ft. 2 in., all scruff and biceps, Hugh Jackman [leaves] people stammering, “Oh … my … God,” according to costar Nicole Kidman, who adds, “Women’s jaws drop when Hugh walks into a room.”

Despite his rugged good looks and chiseled physique, Hugh Jackman isn’t above pissing his pants. He’s just like one of us! It seems he was onstage as Gaston in a production of Disney’s Beauty & The Beast when he accidentally-on-purpose tinkled in his britches. He told Playboy

“[I was singing and] I picked [Belle] up and realized I peed my pants a little. The very last note is a big time F sharp. You have to release certain muscles to hit it, the same ones that allow you to hold on when you have to go to the bathroom. I thought, if I sing this note, I’m going to pee my pants — if I don’t, I’m going to look humiliated. The actor in me took over.”

Hugh thought he’d gotten away with it until he looked out past the footlights and then down.

“The audience was looking at me funny. It had seeped through and my pants were completely wet!”

Speaking of Hugh Jackman’s urine, I would like to make it known that I would happily bathe myself in a pool of Wolverine’s wee-wee. I’d frolic and splash and roll around like a pig in a mud puddle or a dog on a stink. Of course, I’d prefer bathing in his sweat or his semen, but beggars can’t be choosers. They also can’t panhandle at the bottom of interstate exit ramps between the hours of four and seven p.m. That’s why I mostly stick to downtown street corners and gas stations. All that moving around can really wreak havoc on a girl’s cardboard box.

Hugh at Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia:

I’m not sure what’s going on here, because I refused to watch the clip with the sound on. Best I can tell, Tyra Banks pulls her pants off and screams “Woo!” a lot while the audience explodes into thunderous applause. Thunderous being the operative word here. It probably has something to do with easing her unbearable inner thigh chafing or switching to an elastic waistband because it’s almost lunchtime. Anyway, everyone else in the front row immediately follows suit — probably because they don’t want to be swabbed in gravy and eaten — and then there’s more obligatory clapping and wooing and a couple of nervous sideways glances at each other. It’s like a giant Weight Watchers meeting, only with less pants and more fear-motivated enthusiasm. The Tyra Banks Show just keeps raising the bar for daytime television!