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.

Pineapple

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.