Snuggies already look like day-glo robes from a freak religious cult. But throw in a couple of overly-enthusiastic white people dancing in the kitchen with lunatic grins and, well, just look at the photo.
[c] 2009 Russ of America
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I was born terminally handsome.
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.
It’s been tough.
[c] 2008 Russ of America
