To be sure, Game of Thrones may have made some recent and shocking headlines, but in my mind, nothing was more devastating than the death, zombie re-birth, and second death of Khal Drogo–my sun and stars, the moon of my life. Every time he appeared on the screen I wanted to just hop into one of his boobs and snuggle. I would have ridden those boobs to the moon and back, I’ll tell you what. I don’t know what Godly fitness studio Jason Momoa’s tits popped out of, but I do know that the angels sung and wept tears of joy on the day they did. I wept the first episode he appeared in and have been wanting to dry my eyes on his chest ever since.
No one could possibly come close to matching Drogo in my mind, a fact illustrated by the (apparently many) jabronis who have attempted such a futile feat:
And then there are the ultimate favorites:
I hope someone told each and every one of these people how stupid they looked–which seems likely, especially the dude wearing sweatpants; I’d like to shove that horse head up his ass, but unfortunately his hand is attached to it.
Mourning his loss hasn’t been easy. Heartbreak is a bitch with boobs like Khal Drogo. I still think about him (and them) often, each time tearing my heart a bit more. Why did he have to die? I ask myself that daily. While I can’t seem to find an answer, I’ve settled on believing that he simply wanted a small beard trim and a spot in 30 Seconds to Mars.