Forget Matthew McConaughey and the other shirtless wonders of the world, ladies. There’s a new (old) gun in town, and he wants you to know it. Rad Vlad is prepared to defend your very personal, sexy republics, even if he has to invade your panties to do it! Check out these photos of the man-myth himself on an overnight vacay, and realize that with every moment you linger over them in a saliva-drenched haze of sexual turmoil, you are helping to emasculate the rest of the world.

"Eat sugar, horsey. Yesss... that's right. Good girl. Now we forget all about what happen back in woods, da?"

If power really is an aphrodisiac, then Putin is more powerful than Superman and the smell of a hobo’s taint in August… combined. He’s that good. For God’s sake, the man’s penis is actually a sticking point in international missile agreements. And by “sticking point”, I mean Bill isn’t the only Clinton who knows how to get down. It wasn’t Obama or general statesmanship that led to a potential new warhead treaty between the U.S. and Russia… it was sweaty, awkward, vodka-fueled Hillary-lovin’ that brought our country to the bargaining table and our Secretary of State to the threshold of quivering, sensible-shoe-wearing ecstasy.

(You read it here, first.)

Here we observe what appears to be the sea god Neptune breaking the surface to bestow upon us the majesty of his physical form. Oh, wait... that's just Putin, coming up for air after diving to the bottom of the world's deepest lake to retrieve a woman's toe ring.

At the rate Putin is going, when he croaks, the Russians will skip giving him the whole Washington Monument symbolism treatment and just erect a giant marble dong in the middle of Red Square. Note that I didn’t say “carve a giant marble dong”, since they could probably just use the man’s native equipment.

And that’s assuming he even bothers to die, which is no sure thing. According to old Politburo files that were recently declassified by order of my imagination, by the age of twenty-three, Vladimir’s body was “…perfectly preserved –almost embalmed– by the mix of bear’s blood and yeti testosterone that courses through his veins and powers this engine of sexual destruction in the shape of a human male.”

After his years serving in the KGB, Vlad knows over eighty ways to kill you. His favorite? Softly, with his song.

Make no mistake, females of Earth: you are on notice. His baby borscht is coming to a cervix near you.