I�m not going to talk about the election. I�m not. I made a solemn promise not to discuss politics, and I�m a man of my word. It�s really fucking hard, but I�m going to stick to what I said. I expect some serious karmic rewards for this, though (hint hint, Santa).
Have you ever gotten one of those pictures of yourself that seems to exacerbate every single quality about you of which you are absolutely the least fond? I mean, we all have that picture that we either cut our faces out of or throw altogether into the trash, right? I�m not the only one. That picture where the light catches you just right so as to make it look like you�re flaring one nostril, and your forehead goes on for about thirteen miles, and one eye is squinted just a little bit more than the other, and the hooker whose breasts you�re snorting coke off of has her head at just the right angle to make it look like she�s only about sixteen? Man, I hate that picture. Damn tabloids.
Anyway, about a week ago, my friend Argyle gave me a picture of myself in which I actually look pretty good, and I was pleasantly surprised. It�s not that I take a lot of bad pictures, but it�s rare that you get the one shot where you really have no complaints. My friend Tori, on the other hand, is constantly sending me photos of the two of us in which she looks really cute, and I look like the homeless encephalitic derelict she dragged from the gutter, dressed up, and took out for a three day whiskey bender. Eyes all crossed, face all shiny, hooker all underage-y. The worst part is that she�ll frame these pictures and give them to me as gifts, so I feel like an asshole if I make any kind of comment like, �Gee, thanks, Tori! I love how my shirt in this photo really brings out the veins in my neck.�
I bring this up because just the other day I received a couple photos of myself. I was flipping through them and was mostly very pleased with what I was seeing. And then I reached the last picture in the bunch and did a double take as I discovered a photo of who could only be the secret bastard lovechild of Buddy Hackett and Moms Mabley. I proceeded to do a spit take when I realized that what I was looking at was actually my own terrifying visage.
I was horrified. I don�t know how I did it, but at the exact moment that shutter snapped, every part of my face that could wrinkle wrinkled, every part that could bulge bulged, and parts whose properties ought to remain immutable swelled or shrank on some horrible whim. I looked like someone held me upside down and all the lard rushed to my face. And I�m a skinny guy, y�all! I don�t know where all the bloat came from, but it decided to settle right around my cheeks and jaw line.
I keep putting it away and then pulling it out again, hoping it�ll be better, but every time I see it, it just keeps getting worse! It�s like the portrait of Dorian Grey, or something! And I know that a snapshot is a single instant, frozen in time, and that this one particular moment might never again be captured on film -- God willing -- but the fact remains that from a certain angle, in certain lighting, my face looks like a bag of wet laundry. There it is, and there�s nothing I can do about it. It has shaken me to my very core. Obviously, I�m hoping this was just a fluke, and that there were sunspots involved or something, but every time it glares back at me, like the medusa, I realize I have to resign myself to its reality.
I know we all have that picture somewhere, where the alchemy of elements conspired against us to make us look like voodoo spirit masks, but I am hell bound and determined to figure out just exactly what occurred here so that it will never happen again.
Failing that�well, I�ve got paper bags, y�all, and I�m not afraid to use �em.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: bitch sucking a donkey [Number one with a bullet of the most disturbing searches resulting in my website.] I�m Watching: Saved!, and it�s hilarious. And: In the Mood for Love. Well, okay, I haven�t watched it yet, but I�m going to, I swear.
