He looks like he would have been more appropriately dressed had he complemented his outfit with tan argyle socks to match his shoes. That white on brown ensemble just makes him look tacky.

He looks like what began as a fun night of dropping acid with the boys, is about to turn really ugly when someone notices his head has grown a cake.  

She looks like a sexy photo entailing a deep lunge inadvertently became a pivotal point in her life.

Suddenly, the rip in her universe where boys have penises and girls have vaginas paralleled the rip in her taint where unexpected testicles tumbled through, bringing upon her a lifelong limbo of gender confusion and a deep regret for every Jamie Lee Curtis joke she ever made.

"Look at it this way," consoled her best friend Charlie-Ann May while standing at a distance, careful to keep her mom's van between them, "At least now you know why you were always really, really good at softball."

He looks like Pablo, an attendee at Ricky Martin's Learning Annex Workshop, "Advanced Techniques for the Pleasing of the Ladies." Here he is participating in the "Romancing of the Flower" segment, where instructors complimented him on his quick grasp of technique. Pablo had traveled all the way from his native Venezuela to attend this course and was quite pleased with what he believes to be invaluable romancing skills. "It smelled and tasted better than I expected. I learned to go in strong," said Pablo of the lesson as he wiped his face with a paper towel.

While Pablo was satisfied with his experience, some attendees were not as high on the workshop. "I thought I was gonna learn how to eat pussy," shouted an angry Louie Vitirelli, a 42 year-old butcher from Buffalo, NY as he stood outside the administration office demanding a full refund. "I can let go of the fact that we didn't get to practice on real pussies. But mashed up pie? Pie ain't pussy. I mean, has Ricky Martin even seen a pussy?"

Calls to Ricky Martin's publicist were not returned.

She looks like the mastermind behind the crystal meth epidemic sweeping the U.S.

Incidentally, her famous Coconut Brownie Surprise Bars came in 2nd in a Betty Crocker baking contest where one of the judges exclaimed, "I had 3 of them this morning and would have eaten the whole plate if I hadn't gotten distracted by an impulse to sprint across two state lines before running myself through the plate glass window of a Gap Kids store in Jersey."

Her grandkids love her because she gives great hugs and her apron always smells like cinnamon.

Her dealers love her because she wears a pearl necklace.

He looks like after the fruit punch from his cousin's bar mitvah took its toll on his bladder, he stumbled into the wrong bathroom stall where he found a couple of burned out Wall Street brokers doing lines for stress relief. They asked him, "Hey kid, do you party?" and he was like, "Yeah" and they were like, try this. And all of a sudden, life was soooooo good and the next thing he knows, he's waking up behind the wheel of someone's Lincoln Towncar with the hood crashed into a Jack in the Box drive thru, a dead hooker in the backseat, an empty glock in his lap and $50,000 in bloody cash spilling out of the glove compartment. On the positive side, his cousin did mention that he did a wicked version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin" on karaoke that night before he tossed the DJ through the plate-glass window.

He looks like Mark McGrath but with a smaller penis. His friends call him Chill and his claim to fame is that night he got so drunk, he flattened a neighbor's parked Miata with his Bronco and didn't realize it until the cops showed up the next morning to inquire about why his truck was parked in the community pool. His favorite actress is Tara Reid. Yeah, she's a good actress.

She looks like she's cleaning up the little accident that her friend Fluffernut left on the carpet of her dad's office. Meanwhile, she can't wait for her dad to see the little accident she left in his briefcase.

He looks like the best years of his life were spent as a roadie for Lynard Skynard, when rock n' roll was his soul, whiskey was his blood and the opening chords of "Freebird" made his testicles shudder with pure sappy sentiment. He'd had his share of laughs and sorrows and mother-daughter threesomes on the road until that fateful plane crash in '77 killed three members of the band and left him devastated. He returned home to nurse a broken heart and a severe disillusionment with God.

These days, he owns a local bar in Delmar, Alabama that proudly serves beer out of 12 oz. cans, where the confederate flag hangs proudly in the back window of his pick-up, and his mutt, Lucy, sleeps faithfully at his side. Some call him a local legend, while others call him that weird feller who wears 'em roadkill on his hat. But mostly, they know him as that guy who's usually too pissed drunk to even know his own name and usually breaks down weeping uncontrollably if anyone is sadistic enough to put on some Lynard in the juke.

Incidentally, the man seated next to him feels smug in thinking that no one knows he's wearing a toupee, and sometimes he'll pee himself just a little bit just to see if anyone notices.

He looks like Sammy, who really, really, really hopes he gets chosen to become the national spokesperson for Jesus Juice--The Exalted Mormon Alternative to Soda.

She looks like she's thrilled that she found an ad in the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist stating that an "open-minded" couple was seeking a slutty submissive to play an erotic human coffee table for no-strings-attached afternoon demeaning. The open-minded couple on the other hand, is disappointed as they were not expecting said erotic human coffee table to come with a perm.

He looks like life is hard when you belong to the only white family living in a black neighborhood in Atlanta and your dad's a registered sex offender. Tired of getting his ass-kicked by six-foot tall 9 year-olds on his way to school, Jason decided he needed to go thug to earn respect on the street. He beat up the 6 year-old sisters of the 9 year-olds, got himself suspended for stabbing the Algebra teacher in the butt with spork and started wearing gangsta clothes. Unfortunately, his mom makes his clothes out of old tablecloth and his ride is a wood-paneled 1985 Chrysler Town & Country. Jason's life as a gangsta was short-lived after the spork incident, when he was sent to a juvenile reform program to be scared straight by a former gang member turned ex-con who painted an excruciatingly graphic picture of why convicts would love Jason's smooth, delicate skin and soft, tender lips. Today, Jason still gets his ass kicked by kids half his age, but he has gained invaluable self-perspective in knowing that 1. You shouldn't try to be something you're not; and 2. He never wants to be mouthfucked by a huge Dominican gang hitman named Chico who bought him for a toothbrush, a kazoo, some jerk-off mags and a box of Good N' Plenty's.

What?? There's a Book??

The name of the game is fun.

We are now accepting photograph submissions to be included in our upcoming book, He Looks Like, Vol. 1. If you have reached the place in life where you are able to laugh at yourself, then you’re allowed to play with us. All photo submissions must be a high resolution digital file (ie...the non-compressed digital picture from the camera), a high-quality scan, or a photo-quality copy. Only high-resolution files or photos will be accepted!

All submissions must also be accompanied by a signed release by the person(s) in the photo. If that person is you, great. If you'd like to submit your funky-looking grandma passed out with her face in her soup, you'd better make sure she signs the release!

Download, print, and fill out this release, and mail your submissions to:

He Looks Like
2180 Westwood Blvd, Suite 1-J
PMB #237
Los Angeles, CA 90025

Digital submissions should be emailed to brokenhalo6@gmail.com (accompanying releases must be snail mailed).

Again, all submissions must a high-resolution file or actual photo, and must be accompanied by the signed release in order to be used in the book.

Let the irreverence begin!

He looks like Samy Choy, the owner of Samy Choy's Holistic Pest Control, who uses his training in martial arts and meditative mind control to extract pests. Many who have observed his work describe his methods as "unorthodox, though highly successful." One satisfied customer explains, "He makes his way around the room grunting, howling and meowing while forming a variety of claws in the air, all while maintaining a rigid squatting position. It's an intense process that can take hours, but his concentration is inhuman! And at the end of the day, I don't know how, but he always comes out with a box full of rodents." Samy has earned an amazing reputation for his service in this arena, making Samy C's Holistic Pest Control hugely successful and almost as profitable as his restaurant, Samy C's House of Mystery Meat, which was recently given highest ranks by Zagat's.

They look like Willis and Perry, two average American guys who have been best friends ever since the first week of freshman year, when they lived down the hall from each other. They were both hiding out in the shower stalls calling their mothers on their cordlesses when they simultaneously realized that the echoes of girlish sobbing weren't emanating solely from their own mucus-filled heads. They soon bonded over the fact that they both hated their respective meathead roommates, that they both wanted to major in pre-med or mechanical engineering or special events coordinating (Psych! There's no such major!), that they both preferred cashmere to wool, and that 500 thread-count silk sheets were the only way to go because they make your naked body feel absolutely DELICIOUS when you wake up in the morning. The two were often seen in the cafeteria line having punching contests or pulling each other into headlocks for no particular reason other than, "What? It's FUNNY." They were always the shoulder for each other to cry on when they couldn't seem to get girlfriends, because all the girls they met were too crazy, too prudish, too aggressive or just plain girly. Perry in particular, had a rough time getting dates because he would always jokingly refer to girls as bitches and hos, which he convincingly played off as an affectation of just another white boy who wanted to be black.

No one ever said anything when the two spent more time chasing each other around during football games in the quad, trying to slap each other's butts rather than actually playing. No one ever said anything when they synchronized their Halloween costumes with Willis' "Gay Punk Rocker" complementing Perry's "Gay Guido." No one even said anything when they got matching ass tattoos , with Willis getting "Joanie" and Perry getting, "Chachi," both claiming it was an inside joke (their friends just rolled their eyes). No one ever said anything until one day, the Portuegese exchange student who didn't know any better innocently asked, "You two do sexy together, yes?"

"We're best friends," said Perry, as equally offended as confused, while everyone within earshot avoided eye contact with him. Perry and Willis looked at each other, ready to laugh off the comment, when in that moment, like Adam and Eve just after biting into the forbidden fruit, something changed.

Whatever happened between them after that, no one knows. Willis showed up to class the next day with a black eye; Perry joined a frat and began dating and having wild exhibitionist sex with the hall whore who would take off her top for anyone who fed her enough peach schnapps. Neither ever spoke of the other.

20 years later, Perry, now married with 3 kids, would run into a girl who had lived in his hall during that fateful year. "What ever happened to Willis?," she would ask. "You guys were...tight."

"I don't know," said Perry. "Fag," he added, furtively under his breath.

"Excuse me?" said the girl, but Perry was already changing the subject to the wild boys-only cruise to Rio de Janeiro he was looking forward to taking in August with hundreds of past and present members of his fraternity. Shortly after she left, he hurried to his car and was seen sobbing into the steering wheel, his tears falling from his face and drenching his seafoam and mochachino Roberto Cavalli cashmere sweater as he dialed his mother's phone number into his cellphone.

She looks like a method actress who, despite her husband's protests, lived in a crackhouse for over a month to research her non-speaking role as Crack Whore #2 on an episode of The Shield. She returned with collapsed veins, severe tooth rot and a wicked petrified crust on the back of her neck that smelled strongly like wet dung and took an assortment of power tools to break off, but she gave the best damn non-speaking Crack Whore #2 performance to ever be cut for time from a cable network television show.

Her career took a turn for the worst when her stellar performance caused her to be typecast as Crack Whore #2's, Dead Prostitute #4's, and Halle Berry's stand-in. She took time off from acting, found God, and returned with a vengeance, vowing to accept only auditions for characters who defined the very fiber of moral righteousness and innocence. But when she fought hard for and lost the lead role in The Princess Diaries to Anne Hathaway, who in her opinion, looked neither like a princess nor a diary, she become angry and despondent, cutting off contact with friends and loved ones and slipping back into the drug dependency which she always blamed for her career's downward spiral. These days, sadly, she can be seen twitching down Hollywood Blvd., loudly announcing a willingness to trade handjobs for Thunderbird. Her husband, Leonard, would like her to come home.

Vote for the 2005 Bloggies!

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He looks like he's embarking on a long and fruitful live of being completely retarded to social cues.

He looks like he's constantly being mistaken for a neo-Nazi ever since that night he got really drunk and his frat brothers convinced him to get their house address tattooed onto his hand so he'd be able to find his way back home. What people don't notice right away is that the tattoo actually wraps around his hand and reads:

18742 S
HATE
RFORD ROAD (THE
BIG HOUSE RIG
HT BEHIND MANNY'S
LOCO TAC
O SHACK &
PASTRAMI, NEXT DOOR TO
THE ENTERP
RISE RENT-A-CAR)

DON'T BLOCK THE DRIVEWAY, THANKS.

But while this look comes in handy when convincing the snooty maitre'd at the French bistro that he is surely NOT going to pay for his salad when he specifically asked for no tomatoes, and yet his salad looks like some giant tomato-eating robot took a big heaping tomato dump on it, people tend to judge him by his appearance and neglect getting to know the real him. He's actually a very cheerful guy with a sweet, sensitive disposition. He likes sunsets over the ocean and the clean smell of the air after it rains. His favorite color is aqua and he cites his mother as his role model. In his spare time, he likes to write poetry and paint landscapes, as well as spend time with his two cats, Lady Lovely and Mr. Butterball. If there is one thing he could tell the world, it would be...he's devastated that Brad and Jen couldn't work it out.

She looks like if that ho-bag freshman doing her makeup in there doesn't get out of the bathroom right now, she's gonna have to break down this door before she pisses herself again.

He looks like when his only son AJ came out to him, he had a lot of trouble accepting the thought of his boy being a homosexual. But after struggling with the normal feelings of anger, sadness and guilt over what he may have done wrong as a father, he finally reached a cathartic level of acceptance when he read the acclaimed self-help book, "When Bobby Likes Anal: A Parent's Guide to Coping With a Child's Homosexuality." He called up AJ and told him he loved him, no matter who he liked to poke and where. And as a loving gesture of acceptance and understanding, he went through his late wife's closet and found this sweater which he thought A.J. might like to wear.

She looks like she gets infuriated when people insinuate that she might be adopted...

He looks like a poster child for the anti-drug campaign, “Say No to Crack Babies.” His daddy was a drug dealer and his mother was Whitney Houston, though she gave birth to him secretly when she was supposedly on her “3rd” run at rehab, paying a nurse to pass him off as her own. The nurse, desperate for a score one day, unwittingly traded him back to his own father for vial of crack and a sixer of McNuggets. His father had hoped to sell him on the black market for a nice little profit (they pay more for the white ones) but something came up and he needed a baby to help some traffickers pass off as a family in order to smuggle a large shipment of coke across the border. Soon little Baby Cracker (Rico who cuts the stuff was real proud of coming up with that name) became a fixture on the scene, raised by the prostitutes and pimps and dealers who adopted him as their very own. Unfortunately, the crack his mother smoked while he was in the womb left him quite mentally deficient, but his surrogate family taught him well and he could smack them hos like a champion. After his father was killed by an undercover cop in the middle of a bust, Rico got him a job working the door of a seedy strip club in New Orleans’ French Quarter. He’s the best doorman the club has ever had, as he can say “I’ll fuck you up” in 12 different languages, and his crazy eyes really freak out anyone even thinking about starting trouble. Whitney showed up once and not knowing he was her son, offered to suck his dick for crack. Instead, he smacked her up real good and sent that crazy bitch on her way.

He looks like when God asked him to leave heaven, God said, "Dexter, I know you got that crazy funk and you're bringing it all up in here, but now I need you to go out there, beyond the gates of heaven to spread that mean ol' funk of yours, okay?"

And Dexter said, "My man, you speak the truth. There are bruthas and sistas whose eyes are closed to the Lord cuz they ain't experienced that glorious funk that can change their lives. And I'm gonna find those people and touch 'em so they can be saved in the name of our righteous Lord and the Funky Revolution." So he packed up his electronic keyboard and an assortment of velvet suits and mock turtlenecks, picked his fro nice and high, and strutted out of those gates to spread the funk in the name of the Lord.

As the gates closed behind Dexter, St. Peter whispered to God, "You are aware that by funk, he thinks you're talking about music, right?"

"I don't care what that moron thinks," said God. "My crotch and everyone else's has been itching like a mah'fucker ever since that guy got here, so he can go on and spread his nasty funk someplace else."

He looks like Dr. Sebastian Reichmann-Lowenstein, the famed behavioral psychologist whose work in analyzing human behavior in high stress environments has led to much understanding of the effects of war and poverty. While little about the man's personal life had previously been known other than his having married eight times, much light was shed by the publication of an unfinished autobiographical manuscript that was discovered after his untimely death at the age of 64.

Here is an excerpt from this manuscript:

My mother was a cold woman. While she did not possess the disposition necessary to be a nurturer, she nevertheless proceeded to bear a child for reasons unexplained. I remember my childhood as one of encouraged intellectual curiosity, molded under the watchful eye of both parents, who were rogue Freudian psychoanalysts recently emigrated from Zurich to Cincinnati, Ohio.

Mummy was often engrossed in her work, and the terrible neuroses projected onto her by her patients drove her to a passionate secret affair with Portuguese brandy, which she often snuck after dinner from a bottle hidden behind a shoe rack in her closet. I found her asleep at the foot of the stairs in a pool of urine with her hose bunched around her ankles on so many occasions, I finally gave up on scrubbing her hose with soap and merely ran them quickly under hot water before setting them out to dry, so that when she wore them again, the pungent smell of human waste would be evident in public once her body heat warmed the garment. In hindsight, this behavior was quite passive aggressive, but I do not feel the need to assume contrition. Father was a kind but physically infirmed man who was equally consumed by the mysteries of the human mind. Together, they were brilliant analysts who seemed to regard me as an unregulated test subject with which to exercise their eccentric theories.

They quite enjoyed sitting in the background and observing me in my daily dealings with both adults and other children, never encouraging or reprimanding, but quietly taking notes and whispering to one another. They kept a ledger next to my bed with meticulous records of my psyche's development, from which I was encouraged to view when I was old enough to read. It was from here that I later learned that I was particularly resistant to relinquishing my anal phase, as I seemed to almost defiantly refuse to recognize when and where it was appropriate to dispel waste.

My parents blamed it on an unresolved fascination with my mother and the womb from which I sprang and as a result, when I reached the age of 4, rather than buying me the rocking horse in which I quite fervently desired, they bought me a plastic female doll, with hair not unlike my own mother's. As this was the only item allotted to me which I could claim as solely mine, I soon became quite possessive and protective of it, keeping it clutched tightly in my arms at all times. This doll became as real to me as any other living and breathing person, and I named her Judy. Judy was the love of my formative years. As our relationship developed, I blamed her clothing for her inability to change or grow as I was and I banished them from her body.

Soon I shunned the company of other children, as the attention of Judy was enough to keep me satisfied. Together, we explored the mysteries of the world and each other, and I truly believed I would need nothing else of the world other than my dear, compassionate, hilarious Judy. And it was with her help, that I ceased my habit of defecating into the produce bin of our icebox before suppertime.

When I turned 9 years of age, an official of the community approached my parents in regards to my schooling. By definition, I was homeschooled but in truth, my parents wanted me free of institution and to discover my own place and the projections of my psyche within the collective of the world. But after threats from this official, I was soon shipped off to Lincoln Elementary, where I spent the rest of my developmental years miserable in the public school system.

Judy's presence in my arms from the first moment at school quickly made me a target of stronger and more aggressive children whose mothers fed them excessive amounts of bovine milk. Before the day was over, Judy had disappeared from my desk, leaving me wailing inconsolably for hours until her charred remains were found in the field behind the yard. The culprits never came forward and after years of grieving, I submersed myself within my studies, soon obsessively engrossed in a career based solely on refuting the work of my parents. Now looking back upon my years, I believe I never did truly recovered from the loss of my first true love, though I did try many, many times to replace her companionship with lesser others.

After excerpts of this manuscript were published in the New York Times, Mitzi Goldberg, his first wife, confided in a friend, "I always had this strange feeling that the complexity of my anatomy made him somewhat uneasy." To which her friend replied, "Honey, it's cuz you're anatomically correct."

She looks like her mom and dad are extreme conservatives who are very strict about the kinds of influences they would allow on their children. She was never allowed to watch TV, even PBS programs which her parents claimed were too morally irresponsible in their promotion of homosexuality and hallucinogenic drug use while fetishizing hand puppets. She's 16 and the only movie she's ever seen is "The Ten Commandments," which her family would watch every Easter after dinner with the Reverend's family. Her favorite part of the movie is when Moses parts the Red Sea, because she always feels a little funny in a naughty place. She once told her mother about this when she was 14, causing her mother to lock herself in the bedroom and wail hysterically, praying at the top of her lungs for 16 straight hours for God to save her daughter's soul. No one has ever told her how babies are made--only that they are bestowed upon a man and woman who love each other and have received a blessing from God. She's thoroughly confused by the little girl who lives down the street who says she has two mommies, but she's afraid to ask her parents about this since many people have warned her not to upset her mother who's "nervous." She truly doesn't realize that men are anatomically different from women, and assumes that all people, like herself, have a vagina. One day, the Reverend's daughter asked her if she wanted to play a new game and she said, "Sure!", ecstatic because the Reverend's daughter always knows super fun games, like pulling off each other's shirt and wrestling in the garden shed, or Chair, the game where they take turns sitting in each other's lap. The Reverend's daughter said this game was called Tea Factory, as she unbuttoned her jeans and dropped them to her ankles. Outside of playing Bible Trivia, she has never had so much fun.

She looks like she ain't fuckin' sitting in the back of the bus.