Every
morning I wake up, look in the mirror, and ask myself, “Am I or am I not
Earth’s Hottest Man? Because the public is counting on me to be honest.”
To
tell you the truth, I’m not so sure anymore. Because regardless of how good
looking I am in the underwear modeling I do for Nordstrom, and regardless of how
even more good looking I am in
person—in the flesh, right before your very eyes—it’s basically impossible to
have kids and continue being so damn hot.
Because every five minutes I got to change somebody’s diaper or wipe some kid’s butt, and stuff like that really detracts.
Because every five minutes I got to change somebody’s diaper or wipe some kid’s butt, and stuff like that really detracts.
I
swear every time I try for a little alone time with my wife (unless it’s like three o’clock in
the morning, and even then there’s no guarantee), someone is yelling at me from
the bathroom, “Dad, I’m done!”
Hottest Man in the World, Unbelievably Successful Nordstrom Underwear Model, Father of Small Children—I may be spreading myself too thin.
Hottest Man in the World, Unbelievably Successful Nordstrom Underwear Model, Father of Small Children—I may be spreading myself too thin.
And that could mean the end
of this blog. Because I refuse to mislead my 1.4 readers a month, a portion of
which lives in Russia, according to Google, however that works (a leg
maybe, or a hand).
What I’m trying to say is, I refuse to misrepresent the truth, which has always been my commitment to mankind, even in front of the canvas when the photographers are oiling me down and trying to slip raw chicken breasts down my briefs to make my cheeks look more voluptuous than they actually are (an old underwear model’s trick I refuse to employ).
What I’m trying to say is, I refuse to misrepresent the truth, which has always been my commitment to mankind, even in front of the canvas when the photographers are oiling me down and trying to slip raw chicken breasts down my briefs to make my cheeks look more voluptuous than they actually are (an old underwear model’s trick I refuse to employ).
So
I feel that I’m at a crossroads: what’s best for my children and what’s best,
again, for my 1.4 reader each month, who must be totally weird looking, if he’s
not scattered across the globe—with his extra leg or a couple of extra
arms sticking out of his back.
All 1.4 of him, who probably reads this blog as a sort of escape from his own tragic hideousness.
Listen 1.4: don’t fantasize about being me till you’ve posed for a photo-shoot in my speedo. I don’t have four arms, but sometimes when I’m changing one of my kid’s blowouts I wish that I did.
All 1.4 of him, who probably reads this blog as a sort of escape from his own tragic hideousness.
Listen 1.4: don’t fantasize about being me till you’ve posed for a photo-shoot in my speedo. I don’t have four arms, but sometimes when I’m changing one of my kid’s blowouts I wish that I did.
Honey, can you bring me the wipes!?
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