There's a medium-sized collection of girls I refer to as "she's one of my ex-girlfriends." Among that population, there's a small collection I also refer to as "she's one of my friends." And out of this small batch of friends, Kristen is my best. That's because she's the most likable. And when likable people have birthdays, they receive cards. This is a card Kristen received:
Obviously the female character is supposed to represent Kristen as a magnetic little hottie, gleaning the interest of a baker's half dozen men.
I would probably describe these men as "hungry bachelors" but for the dubious concealment of almost every proximal phalanx (i.e. ring portion) of every ring finger. Every single marital phalanx but that owned by the fellow in the green Aladdin pants is hidden.
Either way, this flock of scavengers surrounding her - married or otherwise - is supposed to resemble some sort of flattery. I get that. The problem I have is that there's nothing flattering about anything in this card whatsoever.
Starting with the girl. Starting with the girl's calves specifically. They look no healthier than pirate stilts. Not even good pirate stilts either. They're like little kid joke-stilts. If they were propped beneath my Great Grandma Roth back when she was alive and super old and withered, they would have buckled and shattered beneath her skeletal torso. Thus, best case scenario, this woman has really severe osteoporosis - far worse than my Great Grandma Roth ever had - and can't stand upright without suffering a tibial stress fracture. This explains why she's the only one sitting on a bar stool in a room that not only isn't a bar, but appears to be a dance floor.
Several feet north of her Halloween-calves is a scalp that gives the impression she's sprouting, likening her to some sort of root vegetable. A root vegetable with only slightly misshapen breasts.
Given the cast of her immediately visible problems (including the crazy lower knee and I'm hoping that's just a background colored thing in her lap as opposed to a missing side), I would be willing to wager at least eight dollars and fifty cents that she has some sort of spine condition too. Some fused vertebrae, or really bad scoliosis, or spina bifida or something. But she won't show me her back. I asked. And she seemed a little bit offended by the question, so I didn't want to push it any further. And thus, I guess I'll never know.
What I can see is that she's the only one in the room that's drinking. I guess I'm to assume she's succumbing to alcohol dependence instead of confronting her bodily problems like a responsible adult.
More importantly, what's floating in her glass? A mega-roofie? Yikes.
"That's an olive, Courtney. It's a martini."
Okay, then she's drinking a martini out of a wine glass and it's a really weird looking olive. It looks more like a pepperoncini. Or a severed finger. If it's the former, why is she not drinking out of a Subway cup? If it's the latter, it probably came from the guy in the yellow tank top who's missing two fingers from his left hand.
Before we get to that guy though, let's start on the far left. Let's do this because structure is very important to me. A lot.
Okay, the man on the left, in his pastel golf attire, is terrifying to me. If he's not a date rapist, he's at least a child pornographer, but the probability is that he's both.
"How would you know that!?"
Because, defensive reader, beneath the tamest of three afros, he bears the creepiest of seven faces. Look at it. His half-cocked eyebrows are sprung cunningly over ultra-sleaze eyes (complete with violet mascara). And his sagging lids are not weighted into a pair of ptoses because of something like Devil's Trumpet poisoning either. His pupils aren't dilated at all. They're just the drooping features through which a child-pornographer-combo-date-rapist sees the world.
His nose is a bit of a contrast to his eyes though.
If you use your finger to cover his eyes, he begins to look like one of those old racist nineteenth century drawings of an evil Jew. Though this is hardly a distinguishing quality being as every male here looks like a racist nineteenth cartoon of an evil Jew. Sieron (the artist) was obviously going for the anti-Semitic theme, falling just shy of the French style with the Dr. Celticus nasal hook.
Given the obvious anti-Semitism, I expect the girl's bubble to say something about bagels, circumcisions, or Hollywood... but it doesn't. Weird.
Even weirder is the smile beneath the anti-Jew campaign of a nose. This is clearly the smile of someone that's about to upload JPGs of your child's privates on the internet.
As a rule, the longer someone's teeth are, the creepier their grin becomes. And with this gentleman, there is no visible origin or endpoint of his teeth. All that I can assume is that they're contained within the dimensions of his head.
South his head, his legs appear to begin mere centimeters below his arm pits. The rim of his banana shorts actually rests above where his elbow hangs. Compare that to the relative positions of everyone else's pants, thongs, and elbows.
Weird huh? I guess if I wanted access to his belly button, I would first need to unbuckle his belt. Luckily, I want no such access. Unfortunately, neither does anyone else, which is what drove him to become a date rapist and/or a child pornographer in the first place, standing all erect with his sweating feet socklessly wrapped in his increasingly moist shoes.
"Bachelor" number two is the first among a pair of majorities for which banana shorts was an outlier.
He's one of 62.5% of all people present who are either sleeveless or shirtless, and among the same calculated majority of present people hopped up on some form of sympathomimetic - probably cocaine - evidenced by his lidless, unblinking eyes.
Pony tail aside, the rest of his face abides by the anti-Semitic proportions described earlier, but this is a majority so ubiquitous, it's not worth further mention.
Beneath his head, obesity is his most notable quality. Clearly he got type II diabetes by being a porker, and he's trying to cover that up with a baggy Christmas sweater. But we all know that - beneath this sweater - he has a sagging pannus draping over the front of his pelvis like a fleshy miniskirt.
And for some reason, he's confused billowy arm fat with great musculature, motivating him to scissor off the sleeves from his sweater for the world to admire. And especially admire how well that sweater matches the color scheme of his sweet, sweet tat.
Maybe he's a Georgia O'Keeffe fan, or maybe he's gay independent of any art reference, but either way his tattoo is of an exploding flower. This is not something I would expose with much pride. Nonetheless, he seems to be in good spirits, which prompts me to question whether or not he has Down syndrome. And then I answer this: yes. And then I realize just how impressive it is that he managed to behave for the duration of a photo shoot. It almost likens him to a real person. But not quite because people with Down syndrome will never be real people.
The third "bachelor" is the first of two completely shirtless men, but this one has pushed shirtlessness to the max, wearing only a yellow thong covered in leprechaun clovers. Fucking weird.
He subscribes to all the same majorities as the man with Down syndrome, but instead of an embarrassing tattoo, he has a shoulder that extends almost all the way to the elbow of his deformed arm.
Equally deformed is his chin. It has a very pronounced cleft - as do four other chins in this picture - but his is the only one whose mandible is distributed in a way that's not bilaterally equal.
Because this seems like it would be extremely unlikely as a matter of genetics, I'm willing to grant possibility to the notion that it's not a chin dimple at all. Instead, it could be either A) a flap of a huge fatty double chin, or B) a really high goiter.
The goiter option doesn't seem all that likely, but only because I've never seen one so perky. It's certainly possible, but the fatty tuft of double chin seems a little more feasible. Even more so when I compare the adiposity of his chin to the rest of his body. Especially to his chest.
Those are not pecs. They're tits. He has gynocomastia, which may be the result of the same hormone therapy that's encouraging him to maintain an Ellen DeGeneres hairdo.
I'm not sure what encourages him to wear the necklace of what appears to be either little pearls or children's teeth.
Probably the least sexy part of this man though is the crosshatched patch of skin where his abs are supposed to be. This looks like a sloppy tic-tac-toe board. There are literally three columns. No part of this is human anatomy. Nor is it sexy in a zoophilic sense.
There is nothing attractive about this man or his body except for the leprechaun's bulge he hopes will soon uncoil and penetrate the osteoporotic root vegetable in the maroon dress. That part is kind of sexy.
The part of his body I will not be judging the sexiness of is his ankles. Obviously they're gross looking. Everyone can see that. But I don't like to make fun of cancer. I'll do it once in a while, but it doesn't make me feel good about myself afterward. So this man's ankles (along with one other gentleman's) I'm allowing to be exempt from the trappings of sex appeal.
"Courtney, isn't it kind of an unusual place for bone cancer?"
Oh, believe me, I've thought of that. I've tried and tried to diagnose it as something else so that I could go on ridiculing him, but the tumors are literally impossible to overlook. And in both instances of ankle cancer, the men have found it impossible to squeeze into regular shoes. But only in this man's case is that problem being remedied with Jesus sandals. This is something I would ordinarily applaud, but for the eager leprechaun coil at the union of his thighs.
Faith, loins, and cancer aside, the fellows on the opposite shoulder of the girl appear a bit less threatening, beginning with the background chap in the blue shirt.
His posture tells a story. This one: he has no interest in being there. He probably just got off work, mixing custom paint at a ceramic store, and is pissed that he's been dragged to a friend's friend's birthday party. His friend being the fellow in green.
The fellow in green didn't really want to be there either. It's just as much of a burden, but his courtesy is a bit more obligatory, being as he's been friends with the birthday girl since elementary school. That's when she first started referring to him Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. Since then, he's never un-donned the green shirt, and their friendship continues to exist only as the byproduct of social momentum.
He knows she's an increasingly frumpy bimbo, and she knows he's a total bore (except for his hilarious fetish for pink ballerina's leg warmers), but it works. And neither he nor his friend in blue can be bothered to compete with the rest of the guys, who are angling more for the Fred and Daphne style relationship.
Even so, Shaggy still clings to a couple of his old protective qualities, conveniently placing his arm in front of her otherwise exposed crotch, blocking the view of the photographer, who I don't yet know what to think of.
To the right of the non-threatening pair stands the obese man in yellow.
This is the second man with both diabetes and a tattoo, but his tattoo is even gayer than the first one. It's of a rainbow colored pelican.
If the pelican owner's sexual orientation is anything like his arm, he shares the former pair's lack of interest in the girl. The only thing convincing me otherwise is how he's gripping her arm as if she's a misbehaving child in the supermarket in the sixties.
There's a seemingly obvious "I will be the head of this household" attitude he's exerting here. But it's possible that he doesn't even know the arm he's gripping belongs to a girl who's trying to expose her genitalia while drinking one of his fingers in a wine glass.
Yellow may very well think it actually is a little child's arm (because of its skinny, childish quality and the fact that he's completely blind in both eyes, evidenced by the sunglasses that aren't even slightly transparent).
For being blind though, he's picked weird shoes. They look like roller skates converted into golf cleats with the most complex lace design ever. And his choice of necklace is equally weird: a mascara-mirror on the end of a chain.
Technically I guess the arm gripping the lass could belong to the guy in the blue shirt, but the visible palmaris longis tendon reveals that the inside of the wrist is turned out, and that would be an incredible position for a left hand to accomplish.
Likewise, it's possible that the arm belongs instead to the fellow on the far right. It would take a pretty long, rubbery arm to accomplish that, but that wouldn't be his only deformity. This is the other chap with the set of really unattractive medial malleoluses. Especially his left one, sagging down like an ankle love handle. But again, cancerous. I shall not speak further on the subject.
And much like the other chap with ankle bone cancer, this fellow has chosen to go shirtless, revealing another set of disfigured abs beneath pec-free tits. But with this guy, his tits are even more gynocomastic than his shirtless competition to our left, his right.
And resting at the upper crest of these tits is a gold medallion. This is hardly bling. It looks like one of those gold-foil covered chocolate coins on a string. If it were only warmer on the dance floor, he would have melty chocolate all over his cleavage.
All in all, the birthday girl should appreciate Shaggy and his ceramic accomplice making an appearance, but she should be aware that the two of them can in no way tag-team the other five. And when they can't, the girl will be receiving her birthday present via penetration whether she wants it or not. And we'll see what the cameraman does with those pictures.