My thick leg hair was once a source of tremendous shame. Now look at all of these trophies.
While wearing shorts, I happened to visit a local trophy store. I barely made it halfway through the first aisle before a strange clanging sound stopped me in my tracks. Dozens of trophies had become hopelessly tangled in the shaggy wilderness covering my calves and ankles. The shop keeper urged me to keep the merchandise in my luxurious locks free of charge, so long as I left and never came back. Deal.
You see, it's often the very traits that we think of as weird or gross that actually make us unique and gross. There is nobility and confidence to be found in the process of embracing your hideous physical deformities.
My fingers are very long and delicate. When people notice, they often ask if I play the piano. I do not know how to play the piano. Not at all. Explaining this to strangers used to make me feel uncomfortable, like I needed to apologize for failing to live up to the potential of my freakishly long digits.
Now it doesn't bother me in the least. When someone begins to ask if I play the piano, I simply lift my index finger and press it against their lips from across the room.
My teeth are brown. They aren't rotten or dirty or anything like that. The actual pigment is a mottled brown. Even worse, my teeth have tiny pores through which by body releases most of its sweat. For the longest time my smiles were tight-lipped and my classmates voted me least likely to own a stick of deodorant that was free of bite marks.
Then it occurred to me that no one was ever going to steal my teeth. It wasn't much of a solid foundation for a healthy self-image, admittedly, but I gladly took it.
My torso is ground hamburger beef. That's not to say that it looks sort of like ground hamburger beef, or that it has qualities that call to mind a torso-sized chunk of ground hamburger beef. It is literally one big wad of ground hamburger beef and it is my torso.
For many years I struggled, unable to come to terms with my ground hamburger beef torso. Visiting the beach and swimming pools were out of the question for obvious reasons. No matter how often I cleaned my sheets they were constantly soiled with flakes of beef and pinkish stains.
Then one day I realized that my ground hamburger beef torso was a blessing. You see, normal people have to worry about buying new clothes all the time. They get caught up in trends and worry about falling out of fashion. I, however, simply wrap my ground hamburger beef torso in butcher's paper every morning and go about my business. A simple length of tightly tied twine fastens it in place, and I'm ready for my day.
My eyeballs are slightly more than double the size that they should be. When I go to a movie theater to see a film they make me pay twice. Cameras with built-in red eye reduction capabilities overheat after taking my picture.
The size of my eyeballs doesn't simply mean that I look like an anime. I wish that was the case! You see, my eye sockets are the average size. This means that my eyes bulge out uncomfortably like a pair of water balloons squeezed halfway through pasta measures. Every time I look around my eyeballs scrape against my skull and make a squishing noise that's louder than my speaking voice.
As you might imagine, this used to make me feel pretty self-conscious. Especially at the Normal Eyeball Celebration parties I regularly attended. Now I'm completely fine with it.
The key was understanding that it's not about the size of your eyeballs. It's about the size of your fake eyelashes. Mine are enormous thick sons of bitches, so even though my profile is basically indistinguishable from that of a Mon Calamari, I'm pretty sure everyone thinks I look normal.
The treacherous New England Patriots are guilty of deflating their footballs. We must punish them severely in the name of holy retribution. This transgression has been the biggest headline in the United States for an entire week, and it should be the primary concern of all nations.
We have used extensive market research to determine the average consumers of America's favorite rolls of caramel-oozing choco cysts.
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