Photo: Wonderlane, Flickr Creative Commons
It's a scientific fact that I'd make a good stand up comedian. It's true. They've done research on this and everything. People find men with less masculine features funnier than manly men. My head is large, bulbous. My chin inexplicably protrudes, witchlike, from my face, posing a physical danger to those who stand too close. My torso is paunchy and my barrel chest makes me look more fat than intimidating. Contrast that with the long, pencil-thin arms and I'm practically a walking punchline. I even tell jokes and spew witty remarks on occasion.
It's just when you get below my waist that things start to go bad for my comedic aspirations and stand-up dreams. I'm talking about my legs. They just don't belong. I can only assume that I'm actually a conjoined twin, my Danny Devito top half having consumed part of my twin brother who would have shamed Brad Pitt had he not been partially absorbed by the rest of me. To remedy this, I'd have to perform on stage always in long pants, the baggier the better. When people want to sex you, they can't bring themselves to laugh and men can only take sex appeal so far, and not in any direction I'm interested in going. I want to be the next Jack Black except taller, with lips, and higher standards in what roles he accepts. I have no interest in being Sean Connery. He never could act, isn't funny, but he's a damn fine hunk of a man.
So, yeah, those of you who were hoping to be in my entourage when I made it big on the comedy circuit are just screwed. It's my legs fault you can't mooch off of my success, so blame them. I would have let you. I'm needy and desperate for love and attention. Unfortunately, my dickish legs are the strong silent type who are perfectly content to just be themselves. Assholes.