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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.

She looks like she's all dressed up and ready to go as her son's prom date. She has a sneaking suspicion that her strong connection to her son may be somewhat sexual, but is scared to death about the disturbing implications of this.

He looks like when he finally got a day off from guarding that pot o' gold, he was ecstatic about getting to go shopping. He has not felt this fabulous in years!

He looks like when he tells his wife that he's working late at the office and she looks at him suspiciously because he's been spending an awful lot of time "working late at the office," he's really not lying...if working were defined as "tender yet playful mutual tongue massages for delightful hours on end with the department cat, Toxicodendron radicans." (They're botanists).

She looks like Chelsea Clinton on a good hair day.

He looks like that guy who shows up to parties, gets really drunk, then spends the rest of the evening compulsively declaring to anyone who will listen (and even rooms full of people who won't), "Duuuude! I am sooooooooo drunk!" In this picture, people have found him passed out on the kitchen floor. But when they pick him up by the hair, like a drunk circus monkey on cue, the first word out of his mouth is, "Duuuuude!...." One day he'll get beat up by some drunk guys who think he's too pretty for his own good, leaving him with a broken jaw, severely bruised testicles and a raging morphine addiction. But tonight, they plan to Saran wrap his naked, unconscious body to the large oak tree in front of the local senior citizen's home, with a large cardboard sign around his neck that says, "My pussy smells like strawberries." The old folks are going to get quite a surprising awakening at 4 in the morning. Except for his senile grandmother, who always suspected that kid had a pussy.

He looks like he just got done showing the police where he buried the bodies, and now he'd like a Fanta.

He looks like when he goes into chat rooms and pretends to be TammySmiles!, the 12 year old girl from Sarasota, FL who hates the 6th grade, scary movies and mean people but loves Aaron Carter, dolphins and shopping at Miller's Outpost, he feels like he's doing a public service by messing with those sick motherfuckers who use the internet to prey on innocent children. ("Sick motherfuckers...," he likes to rant, "Why aren't there stricter laws against weirdos on the internet????") He's single and a computer analyst who works from home. Other than his mother and random people in a crowded bus, he's never been touched by a woman. He's in a bowling league, but he's not very good. His favorite food is soup. He hopes one day he'll meet a woman who can have entire conversations comprised of only Simpsons quotes.

He looks like after years of ridicule over the massive hump on his back that is actually the ingrown fetus of his twin brother, he decided to do something special for himself on his 70th birthday by having a few ribs removed to render his fat, nagging, "Prudey Judy" wife obsolete. While trying to demonstrate his new "capabilities" to the boys at the Y, his back gave out, but he has too much pride to tell anyone that he can't get up. He's been in this position for 7 hours now and his friends have left to sit in the sauna, grumbling something about him being a "goddam show off." The kid in the background thinks he's dead, but isn't overwhelmingly concerned. His parents have threatened to send him to fat camp, and right now, that's number one on his mind.

He looks like Steve “Chi-Chi” Callahan, the All-Pro NFL defensive end who’s sick and tired of certain speculations that are being made in the media. Callahan is best known for leading all defensive players in tackles and pass interceptions for the last three straight seasons, but these impressive stats are too often overlooked in favor of certain frivolous whisperings. Yes, Callahan is often seen on the sidelines, sporting a bare midriff. But what the public seems to not understand, is just how realistically hot it gets in those uniforms. Even in -12 degree weather. This “questionable” look serves a practical purpose which the gossip-starved public seems too maliciously fond of neglecting.

Yes, Callahan’s elaborate, 17-minute touchdown dance, professionally choreographed by the same dance specialist who’s worked with Ashlee Simpson, Justin Timberlake and Color Me Badd, is the most gratuitous the league has ever seen. But this celebratory act is the mark of a professional, who understands that fans pay good money to be entertained.

Other players have often complained that he is always quick to jump onto a pile, often unnecessarily, even after the play has been stopped. “100% intensity,” responds Callahan as he irons a seamarine silk ascot in front of his locker before a game. “That’s how you have to handle every moment of the game. Even if the ball is dead, you’ve still gotta get on top of that writhing, muscular pile. In this business, there’s little room for mistakes.”

Plexiglass Simmons, Callahan’s teammate and roommate on the road, laughs off the speculations. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with Chi Chi. He’s just a guy who works hard and plays hard. Yeah, he’s different and a little strange, and I never met anyone who liked hanging out in the saunas so much, but that’s just white folks for ya.”

Last week, Fox Sports aired Callahan’s Beyond the Glory documentary, where Callahan showed his sensitive side. When asked about rumors that actor Jude Law had threatened him with a restraining order after he had sent him numerous lengthy letters and lavish gifts, Callahan broke down into tears. “If a man respects another man for mastery of his craft, does that automatically mean he’s making unwanted advances towards him? Because another man has incredibly delicate skin and the most perfectly shaped mouth, does that mean I want to ravage his smooth, limber body with a Coke bottle until he whimpers? I’m so tired of this! I’ve been linked to Paris Hilton for god’s sake! I’ve been photographed eating watermelon like I’m giving it cunnilingus! What more do you want from me?!?!?"

When told of Callahan’s comments on the show, team general manager Alvin Scottsdale just sighed and shook his head.

He looks like he crashed a college house party he wasn't invited to and made a scene, making several overt and inappropriate passes at the girlfriends of some meathead jocks, creating havoc on the dance floor with some moves he learned in his Aerobic Striptease class at the gym before making the unfortunate mistake of having too many jello shots and passing out. His fellow partygoers decided to teach him a lesson. After numerous attempts of trying to get him to release his bladder by putting his hand in warm water, they finally resorted to giving him several grotesque facial piercings. Sadly, the mascara and ladies' undergarment were what he already had on when he arrived at the party.

He looks like Louis, the guy no one wanted to let into the frat because he was way too eager, way too geeky and he always spit when he talked, an unfortunate trait when combined with his habit of always standing too close to people. Yet he still managed to make it in anyway, due solely to the fact that the frat president popped a surprise woodie when he had all the naked pledges get down on all fours and eat Kibbles and Bits out of dogbowls while he doused them with the garden hose, and he was terrified that Louis saw. (He didn't). The president hoped that by granting the overeager Louis entry into the group, it would keep him quiet. Louis is a black mark on the Pike tradition, and his brothers have trouble finding it in their hearts to stand up for him to members of other fraternities, though he is a surprisingly good mud wrestler which serves them well during the annual Greek games. They cringe whenever they feel that familiar overmasculine smack in the backpack followed by a "Hey guys..." Louis' standard greeting. He always shows up to all football games with his face and chest painted in school colors, regardless of harsh weather conditions. He gets drunk off of 2 beers or 1 wine cooler, and once inebriated, is fond of affectionately touching and bear-hugging other men. He claims to have once date raped a passed-out cheerleader, but the girl was actually in the flag corps, and she refutes the story saying that not only was she conscious, but that she had stumbled upon Louis crying from homesickness, and that he had begged her to "cuddle him." Louis is generally regarded as a doofus, but is relatively harmless. Incidentally, he accidentally farted when he flexed for this picture.

He looks like a lesson to all kids about what happens when you don't get your Sex Ed from a reputable source.

He looks like he came out to New York City at the age of 17 to pursue a career of modeling, an aspiration he had held dear ever since Father Tilly told him that he had "the nicest lips of all the alter boys" when he was 10. He stepped off the bus with nothing more than a small backpack full of clothes, his guitar and his lifelong dreams. One look at his long brown hair bound into ponytail by a rubberband and a friend in "the biz" proclaimed, "The first step to a modeling career is good hair. Well, actually, it's a slutty disposition and a complete lack of moral scruples, but you also want to have good hair." Since he had spent most of his money on his bus ticket out and had no bankable skills with which to pay for a glamorous cut, his friend referred him to the Vidal Sasson School of Styling where he received a stylish 'do from a hairdresser trainee named Babú, a flaming Kenyan with undying allegiance to Richard Marx and large, jangly bracelets. He was horrified when he saw the resulting hair style in the mirror but Babú assured him it was hip and cool...kind of Simon LeBon meets a featherduster. His insecure, self-conscious query of "Does my hair make me look gay?" soon became his never-failing catchphrase, and people quickly tired of him, avoiding him on the streets. His efforts to break into the modeling business failed, and other than appearing in a handful of salon books of haircuts-people-never-get-but-flip-through-and-laugh-at-while-in-the-waiting-area, he went to meeting after meeting with agents who snickered and politely waved him away. He headed back to his small town to live with his parents, where he has journals upon journals filled with rageful, psychopathic entries directed at the Vidal Sasson School of Styling. Sadly, if you ask most industry insiders, they will say that it wasn't so much his eccentric hairdo that killed his career, as the fact that he was always wearing homemade shirts made from what appeared to be recycled tablecloth. He died at the age of 24 in a freak jello accident, a very bitter, bitter man.

He looks like he's feeling quite smug in the fact that he's completely naked from the waist down in this Employee-of-the-Month photo...and no one will ever know it.

She looks like the ex-punk rocker who, after the third incidence of waking up naked in a public place having crapped herself, found Jesus, reformed her life, returned to her roots and now travels through small towns in the midwest, playing to middle school audiences, singing inspirational folk songs of redemption, hope and the power of the human spirit. She self-produced two CDs, and while neither ever made any waves on the national charts, her song, "When You Wake Up In a Subway Tunnel And It Could Be Your Poop Or Someone Else's In Your Hair, Jesus Will Be There To Lend a Kleenex" has gained much underground popularity on college radio stations. She lives in Milwaukee with her husband, Dan, and their three young children.