It’s a malady too sickening if you were to contemplate it, but it’s true and it’s one of those in-your-face debilitations that is worth thirty-three cents a day on one of those late-night Feed The Ugly Children infomercials.
How much would you pay to keep me from being handsome for the rest of my life? I’d say it’s worth $10 a month. I mean, think about it. I have to endure all of the negative traits of being handsome. Mechanics cut me deals on transmission repairs, teachers want nothing but to give me the best scores on my tests in spite of having no academic prowess, and most importantly, women can’t keep their hands off of me.
“Waah!” you mock me. But imagine that every time you went to a supermarket women kept “inadvertently” bumping their shopping cart into your and chatting you up with their flirtatious ways. “Excuse me then, can you tell me how to choose eggs?” “Pardon me, but how can you tell if the pickles are ripe?” It’s a horrible ailment! I don’t much enjoy the supermarket; I just want to get in there and get out without a whole to-do.
But being terminally handsome, this is the kind of penalty I’ve had to bear ever since my inception.
Sure, there have been a few spans of my life where I was able to avoid drawing sexual attention to myself – I’ve gained weight here and there, I’ve grown beards and mustaches, I’ve had wacky hairstyles, I’ve developed a repulsive personality, but women are amazing and glorious creatures who can see clean through that contrived debris and who lust after me for what I am – an intelligent devil accursed by my intolerable handsomeness.
Today as I was doing my upper, middle and lower abdominal exercises, I started to cry because I realized that there were starving children in foreign countries who couldn’t afford to do ab exercises, and as a result, their bellies were all distended and weak, and they were probably suffering from lower back pain.
Nothing makes me sadder than the prospect of children suffering from lower back pain. To me, a child being killed by a drunk driver isn’t as bad as a child who suffers from lower back pain. I think it’s because I figure that running over a child only takes a second, where lower back pain lasts a lifetime. That’s the kind of compassion I embody.
Yes, I’m handsome and compassionate. You’d definitely want to date me, but I’d only dump my current girlfriend for the right person.
Not just a full day of being handsome, but I got overtime for being charming too.
A full day of handsome plus charming overtime? I dunno, but I think that translates into about $168/hour just for being a charming man of America. It’s so sad if I’m thinking of my regular-faced brethren, but when I’m the only variable to consider, I think it’s pretty nice.
Thank god California labor laws are favorable for a man of my advanced attraction.
Please mail all of your surplus sticks to my Valley Glen PO Box so that I might beat away the overflow of lusty women.
I wonder sometimes how the un-handsome make it through their do-nothing days. How do they make ends meet? Not only monetary ends, but their emotional ends, too. How do they attempt to apply meaning to what could only be a dreary, unaesthetic life? I think about that sometimes after I’ve had a glass or two of Cabernet and I’m listening to sad music or Kenny Loggins. But moreso I wonder how people who are just like me — the uber-handsome caste — make it through their days without buying into, or succumbing to, the external pressures applied them by their unhandsome peers. How do we control the handsomeness without being thoroughly untouchable? How do we handle the guilt we bear for being the visual examples of perfection?
The untouchable aspect of handsomeness is immoral, and so I have a real problem with that, but I don’t quite yet know how to avoid it or how to make it right. They didn’t quite explain that while I was growing up a handsome young man of America.
And so here I am today, suffering along with the rest of you, but with my own curse and pain, trying to figure it all out, while trying not to look at you. I write about my plight here so that you better appreciate it. I don’t wish for you to feel pity for me, rather for you to understand my horrors.
There’s a MySpace ad on my MySpace and it says that someone has a crush on me, and that it may be up to FIVE (5) PEOPLE!
Is it Issen? Is it Lindsey or Dina or Omid? Is it someone who just happens to know who I am and has told MySpace to tell me that they have a crush on me even though we’re not MySpace friends yet? I have no idea, but I’m going to click on the ad and enter all my personal information, including my Social Security number and mother’s maiden name and accept their terms of service (including spyware installation) so I can see who has a crush on me!
Yay! I’m so excited!
Russ of America
PS: If you know who has a crush on me, please tell me — I’m willing to give my cc to a total stranger, and I’d rather that YOU have it!