If you're one of those people who still resist the tractor-beam allure of Ryan Seacrest, we strongly encourage you to just relax and submit. We'll admit—there was a time when we didn't really get it, either. Who was this peroxided munchkin, and why was he being beamed into our subconscious eleven times a week by the shadowy forces of the karoake-industrial complex? But once we let his stardust coat us like a really expensive hair-product, life became so much easier, happier, Seacrestier. His effortlessly upbeat and lightly compassionate air, his ability to identify ladies' shoes not just by designer but by season and model number, the comforting thought that even David Archuleta could take him in a best-out-of-five arm wrestling competition: It all just worked, dare we say to the betterment of society as a whole.You scoff, but think about it. Where were we before he was hatched in a Merv Griffin-underwritten research laboratory somewhere on the NM/AZ border? No, not wealthier in every sense of the word and filled with boundless hope for the future! We were utterly Seacrestless—set adrift on an open red carpet landscape, without a clue as to how to best conduct a Harry Hamlin and Lisa Rinna interview at the Daytime Emmys without seeming as though we were just biding time until Joy Behar made her way down the press line. So begrudge Ryan not when you read that his ever-expanding empire is expanding some more. Seacrest is more than just a sublime inevitability. He's the mold for a new breed entirely: The mogulsexual, that flawlessly manicured Captain of New Industry, whose blind commitment to embodying all other annoying urban-male neologisms resulted in the steady accumulation of mind-boggling levels of wealth, power, and fame. You don't hate Ryan Seacrest. You want to be Ryan Seacrest. Defamer, out.