Richard Fucking Kind.

I've heard smidgens here and there that he's actually a quite nice guy. He took Clooney's constant pranking in stride, and isn't too proud to do roles everywhere. I know if I met him, I'd discover a real person with hopes and aspirations, thoughts, opinions, memories and worries. The logical portion of my brain knows that, like any other human, he is a man to be respected and treated with the dignity that befits any other human.

Doesn't matter.

All I have to do is see that goddamn smirk for a moment, and my blood boils. The whine of his voice is like the unintentional scrape of teeth, enamel peeling away and echoing straight through your jawbone to my brain. Just writing this, my fingers don't want to stretch out and find the keys to type. They want to ball into fists. They want to punch that face.

I can't watch Gotham. I made it thirty seconds into one of the teaser trailers, before he was revealed as the mayor, and I drowned out the rest of the audio with "Awww FUCK NO!" My friends do not understand. I have tried to make them understand. But they, sinisterly, choose not to.

It was bad enough to see him on Stargate: Atlantis. It was bad enough that his sniveling character returned. But my cries of rage could be heard for miles when, for the first time in years, I popped the original film in to show to my darling wife, and there he was, infiltrating my childhood. Had he always been there? All along? My wife saw something dark and wretched in me that evening.

He is the type of actor who pops up everywhere. Law & Order, and Psych to be sure, a murderer somehow walking under the radar of the patsies around him. Scrubs, where he didn't even have the decency to suffer a fatal illness. Phineas and Ferb? You bastard. That was a children's show. How dare you. He is everywhere and nowhere, a small enough actor to pass unseen.

But not by me. I see him. I see him.