Christmas

He looks like a new-age holistic healer who honestly believes that crapping on your chest while playing a happy lil' diddy on his banjo will cure your eczema and occasional bout of bad breath.

He looks like Carl, the superintendent of an apartment building just blocks away from the campus of a major American university. The sight of his opened flannel shirt and his cutoff shorts is a normal one around the building, as, even if everything is in working order, he likes to wander the halls, asking every young female resident he sees if she needs "a lil' help with her plumbing," as he strokes the handle of the hammer that hangs on his tool belt. He claims his plethora of body hair makes him so hot that he's unable to keep his flannel buttoned, which, while strange in winter, is thoroughly unpleasant in the sweltering summers, where the smell that wafts from his chest earns reviews of "smells like wet dog," "I think something died in there," "My granddad's colostomy bag smells better." He routinely likes to let himself into girls' apartments when all the kids are away on winter break, inhaling the clean scent of their intimate wear as he presses them to his face, masturbating into orange juice cartons and sitting on their couches naked while watching Nascar. No visit can begin or end without him compulsively rubbing every bathroom and desktop item that isn't bolted down against his testicles. While Carl carries around the smug conviction that no one has any idea of his delightful covert activities, many have suspected his perversions when they return from vacation to find a mysterious musty smell clinging to even the most innocuous items. He is finally caught one day by the mousy girl in 4B, who came home early after her devoutly religious family's Christmas was ruined by her sister's announcement of not only being a lesbian, but of having a black girlfriend as well, only to catch him with her toothbrush jammed deeply up his ass. He was immediately arrested. For years to come, neighbors who were present that fateful afternoon would recount Carl's final angry yet eloquent words before the cops jammed him into the back of the police cruiser..."My only problem is that I love too much. And if that's a crime, then you, me and everyone else in this world all deserve to be behind bars." God bless you, Carl. I hope you someday learn how to tie your shoe.

He looks like the thought of marijuana getting legalized gives him a pants-splitting boner. 

She looks like someone who was permanently traumatized when her parents sat her down on the night of Halloween when she was 9, as she eagerly waited in her superhero outfit to go trick-or-treating, and told her they were getting a divorce. Because daddy is a cheating son-of-a-bitch homosexual. She never did get to go out trick-or-treating that night, as her mother quickly packed her and all her stuff up into the station wagon and peeled out of the driveway, accidentally hitting and killing her cocker spaniel Cuddles in the process. The psychological trauma of this series of events was never dealt with, because she was quickly plunged into the hell of tenements, welfare and food stamps as her mother had no bankable job skills other than giving a mean blowjob, which was something she fortunately discovered with the help of a kind, drag queen living next door. She went through life lost and numb, until one day, at the age of 14, while going through some old boxes looking for something of value to hawk on the street to trade for food as she hadn't eaten in days and her mother hadn't been home in weeks, she found her superhero costume from that fateful night so many years ago. And then it all flooded back...the fear...the anger...the confusion...and most importantly, the pain...of a girl interrupted. Something in her brain shortcircuited as she squeezed into the costume and for the first time in years, felt empowered and alive. She disappeared from her house, prancing the streets of Chicago for days, performing mindboggling deeds of "superhuman" wonder with a wand made from a toilet plunger handle with a used condom wrapped around its end and wearing a tiara made of take-out foil, until the cops picked her up and sent her to a psych hospital. No one ever came to claim her and she became a ward of the state. To this day, she still walks the halls of the hospital, asking to be referred to as Girl Wondrous and speaking with an inconsistent Medieval accent. She refuses to wear anything but her superhero outfit, but the kind nurses who have watched her grow up in the hospital pitch in every year to replace her costume when the old one gets worn out. Somewhere along the course of things, she was discovered to be pregnant, but the hospital is keeping this quiet to avoid scandal. When asked who the father is, she always replies with a faraway blissful look in her eyes, "He's someone magical." Staff and fellow patients have been warned against teasing her in regards to if the father is Superman, as these questions promptly cause her to erupt violently, screaming, "Superman is a cheating son-of-a-bitch homosexual!!" while attempting to bludgeon the enquirer with the giant, yellow foam finger that the hospital has allowed her to wield as her super-weapon.

She looks like she never got over her daddy dying, so when he passed on, she paid a local taxidermist $250 to stuff him up the way she likes to remember him -- so full of life, the ex-sailor who used to regale all the neighborhood kids with his tales of fighting Japs and bagging them Asian beauties during the great war. And party...boy did he used to party. In fact, his shipmates used to call him Party Boy (short for Ol' Crazy That-Dead-Hooker-Ain't-Mine Party Boy With a Heart of Gold, which is tattooed down his thigh) because he was the only one on the ship who could hop on the turrets and shoot down the 'kazes in a hail of bullets and brawn during a booze-induced blackout with only minimal incidents of friendly fire casualties (never ask him about what happened to his best friend Boondog). Every year on his birthday, she rents out the local lodge and hires a DJ, and the whole family comes out to celebrate the good ol' days. Though her sister Sharon says her youngest boy, Tommy, has a chronic bedwetting problem which she blames on that incident last year when grandpa toppled over and pinned Tommy in the parking lot while she was bringing the car around. Here is Party Boy grooving to Brick House by The Commodores. If there's anything Party Boy loves more than the ladies, it's disco!

He looks like a cross between, "I've fallen and I can't get up" and "Oops, I crapped my pants. And I did it on purpose."

12/3/04

He looks like a guy who produces and hosts his own public access show in Michigan, giving tips on model train maintenance and development to fellow enthusiasts. While his bio in his homemade press kit makes a mere cursory mention of his having retired from a career as a high school biology teacher to pursue his lifelong hobbies, what it doesn't elaborate on is the fact that "retired" means "forced to resign even though charges were dropped because of a legal technicality" and "life long hobbies" means "child pornography." Strictly Anglo child pornography. His devoted wife of 34 years works diligently from home stuffing envelopes for a company that recruits people to work from home, stuffing envelopes. They have never had sexually relations, as she is a devout Christian, and takes the views of the Bible literally, though unfortunately, dogmatic misinterpretations run rampant as neither she nor anyone else in her social circle has a reading level above the 4th grade and they mostly "guess" about the meanings of the big words. She is having a secret, torrid pen-pal affair with an armed robberer named Jerome who is incarcerated in a state penitentiary in Kansas. They met in an aol chatroom, and he thinks she is a 22 year old Latina (she forwarded him a picture she saved from an adult site pop-up ad) going to school to be a nurse. With his wife happily occupied, he spends all of his time in his basement. Some of his time is spent working on a 300 sq. foot elaborate landscape for his train set. Most of it is spent fantasizing about dismembering his wife and mailing little pieces of her off to the anonymous recipients of the printed address labels her company sends her that are littered all over the house. He eats the same dinner every night, alone in his basement, which consists of canned sardines, a boiled potato, rye toast with unsalted butter and milk. Unfortunately, the chemicals used to preserve the sardines have mildly mutated his cells, elongating his head by 1.32 millimeters each year. He has been eating this meal since he was 12. After he dies and his wife moves in with her cousin, future inhabitants of his house will always complain about a mysterious moldy smell that never seems to go away.

12/2/04

She looks like a housewife who loves asking her friends, "What would Jesus do?" and then cackles like it's the funniest thing in the world. But she's serious. This woman loves God, and kittens, and her husband Dan, whom she married out of high school and they just love each other to bits and pieces and forever and ever and ever and she is so fulfilled in life that every day, she praises the Lord for all the beauty and happiness He has blessed her with. Hallelujah! Nevermind the fact that she doesn't know yet that Dan gave her the clap years back from a whore he fucked one night while he was out with the boys in Memphis, and her insides are so shot that THAT'S why they haven't been able to conceive. And when asked about why there's a roll of toilet paper on the bed, she explained, "Oh, the toilet's broken so we've gotta do our business out in the backyard until Dan's paycheck comes in next week and we can have the plumber come out. But ya know, this is God's will I guess. What would Jesus do, right? HAHAHAHAHAHA. " While behind her, her husband pantomimes taking out a gun and shooting himself in the head.