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.