UNIVERSAL DONOR EXISTS IN PIXELS


BEFORE

What's up, darling?



AFTER

Braaaaiiiinnnns!
thanks to Confusing Wizard

Mustache Theory
This is just an illustration of my Mustaches Repel Women theory. As you can cleary see, I am trying with all my strength to pull the subject's head towards my face, but the mustache keeps our heads from touching. The gap between her head and mine cannot be closed any further without shaving the mustache; it's like trying to force two refrigerator magnets together when they have the same polarity: totally impossible.
Level 1: Mild Repulsion


This is an illustration of the control group. Without a mustache, this kind of thing happens to me all the time. I was just sitting on the couch, watching TV or something, and all of the sudden, the subject was on top of me like flies on poo. This is why I don't take babysitting jobs anymore. An hour later I had to use that bottle to bash her off of me.
 Control Group: Irresistable Attraction


No mustache, but this chick's not kissing or fondling me. What's up? It seems like an exception to the rule, but there are two good explanations: 1) If you look closely at her eyes (see inset detail), you will see that she is apparently some kind of werewolf, and therefore repelled by the synthetic garlic glands I had implanted in my nipples; 2) dude, that's my sister.
 I have a werewolf for a sister


The repulsive effects of a mustache can be amplified with a pair of mirrored sunglasses, but there are serious risks involved. In this instance, the subject took one look at me and immediately tried to jump out of a window. The subject was restrained with a purple "crazy blanket" and then sedated with an elephant-dose of thorazine, but I still had to sit on her to keep her from flailing around. Though she looks alert, at the time of this picture she had actually lapsed into a light coma.
 Level 4: Instant Psychosis & Attempted Defenestration




UD Hotness Timeline

I've got a chin so big that if i open my mouth too fast I bruise my shins. My face is as asymmetrical as Frank Gehry's telephone doodles. I'm skinny, but I have love handles that make me look like I'm digesting a boa constrictor. I can't stand up straight and my feet pronate so bad that I've got a bigger turnout than a free Oukast concert in Morningside Park. And yet you insist that I'm hot. Have I always been hot? Let's check the photo record.
 
1997 Look at me, all proud on the street like I don't give a fuck. I'd just moved to Brooklyn from my childhood home in Manhattan, which if you're sensitive to the hierarchy of boroughs you know that was a step down, but I'm clearly trying to make the best of it here, like: "there's a 14th street here, too, bitches! Eat hott coxx!" The all-black ensemble was part of a short-lived sartorial experiment, hastily (and wisely) abandoned for financial and laziness reasons.
1999 Taken during my first visit to California, which explains the sheen of terror in my eyes. Compounding the site-specific anxiety is the fact that I'm at a student art opening at CalArts, and I'm worried that someone will ask me what I think of the art and I'll have to give my honest opinion to total strrangers with sensitive art-school feelings. I have since overcome the fear of offending sensitive strangers. The Spider-Man-colored jacket was lent to me by a friend who was like: yeah, you can borrow it, just don't lose it. I lost it.
2001 By this point, I'd apparently gotten comfortable enough with my hotness that I felt I could get away with letting people take pictures of me looking like like an unmitigated asshat. The motorcycle jacket was owned by an actual motorcycle rider, which I think excuses the pose a bit, as I had just stepped off the actual motorcycle. I was still vibrating. Even though the picture was supposed to be comical, Claudia though it was hot enough to use as the main graphic over her interview with me in My Imaginary Boyfirends #3.
Hot-cha!
2003 the first time I'd smiled in a picture since 1997, but it's still a restrained smile, like I've got a secret. If you photograph me at a moment of actual ear-to-ear mirth, you'll see who Bob Kane used as a model for the Joker. My chin is huge, but I have learned to control it. In addition to keeping a serious look on my mug when I hear the whine of a charging flashbulb, you may have noticed that every picture of me is taken from the same side -- my proverbial "good side." Pictures of the right side of my face have a tendency to provoke Leno comparisons. Obsessive, narcissistic image control: it's not just for aging Holloywood stars anymore!
2004 These ultrahot 70s cheaters were a gift from the ultrahot Raekool, who obviously has my best interests at heart. What an angel! Also I'm wearing my homemade "god made dirt" shirt, which makes me all DIY and hipster as fuck. Add the stamp on my hand that says "BAND" from a club where I'd just played a show, and it's enough to make you fucking puke already. But admit it. You want to rub your hands across my unmuscled chest and take a nap on my pillowy lower lip.
 


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