I’m sorry—Liz Truss is hot.

The misplaced confidence and ultimate failure is insanely attractive.

She’s someone who would walk into the cockpit of a crashing plane and say, “I’ve got this”—only to eject the pilot and nose-dive harder.

There’s something magnetic about that.

The hair unmoved by crisis. The voice unshaken by reality. That blinkless stare that says, “I’m right, and markets are wrong.”

She has so much misplaced confidence, she’s the embodiment of shamelessness.

And she fails. Big time. But nevertheless, that failure never once breaks her ego.

To me, that’s catnip.

Don’t get me wrong, I would never want to date her.

But I’d definitely want to watch her lecture a room full of economists—then drag me into the coat closet to argue about cheese.