He looks like Alton, the guy who operates the Tilt-A-Whirl down at the shitty amusement park behind the Walmart. When asked what he likes to do when he's not working, he replied, "Seven? Yeah, seven's a lucky number...I ate m'hat." Alton drives around town in a brown 1990 Datsun hatchback covered in hundreds of bumper stickers. The one that people notice most is the one on the back window that reads, "The only Bush I trust is the one between my legs." Ironically, Alton is neither a feminist nor does he know who or what Bush is. He's just a simple man who really, really likes stickers.

They look like the Hartford boys of Plains, Kansas, who were all born within the confines of their parents' modest two bedroom farmhouse. Their father was affected by a deep-seated fear of hospitals and even deeper-seated belief that blacks, whom he often ranted were spilling out of big city places such as discos, whorehouses, police stations and hospitals, carried a contagious disease that caused wanton slothfulness and deviant sexual desires. Thus, he insisted that the boys be delivered at home by Dr. Sharper, the local veterinarian. This arrangement seemed to work out well when Gaylord (left) and Otis (right) were born, but when it was time to bring Laverne (2nd from right) into the world, the good doctor neglected to thoroughly wash his hands after treating the Grossman's sick piglet for dysentary, exposing Laverne to a bacteria that lead to what many believed to be mild mental retardation and what his mother believed to be a dire need to breast feed her youngest son well into his teens. Gaylord is 3 days away from being expelled from Central Christian College after his roommate, Josiah "The Xsperminator" Samuels turns in a surprisingly well-written paper with Gaylord's name on it, arguing that "blue-balling" is inherently unethical and providing a graphic two-page description of a woman's role in oral relations in proximation to a man's testicles (excerpt: MY BALLS/YOUR CHIN/I WANNA PUT EM ON YOUR CHIN, etc.).

The fourth young man at the table is Todd. Todd lives next door. Todd came over because Laverne told him they had an Atari. They don't have an Atari. Laverne just wants Todd to touch his penis.

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!