Saturday, December 7, 2013
I Want to Be Photoshopped
What you've been lusting after all these years is a technician. Forget Heidi What's-her-name or that woman who wore a topless bikini to the Arctic Circle for the cover of Sports Illustrated. You need to find whoever's doing the photo-shop work, and lick him all over. Tie him to a big brass bed and tickle him with peacock feathers. Coat him in baby oil and play Naked Twister. Not that I've ever imagined doing any of these things with anyone. But you probably have.
But forget supermodels, what about you? Have you looked in a mirror lately? I have, and I can tell you, the experience isn't a pleasant one. This goes double-plus-ditto for photographs. In a mirror, I have a nanosecond to suck in my stomach, straighten my shoulders, close my stupidly-gaping mouth. In a photograph I see myself as I really look. All the time.
Excuse me a moment while I weep.
Surely in this age of twitter-weets, holography, flying drones, and three-d printing, it's possible for someone to be photo-shopped all the time. I can scarcely leave the house without spilling coffee on my shirt. With a holographic image beamed down from a hovering drone, nothing could be simpler than to photo-shop that right out, and you'd have no way of knowing what a doofus I was, unless you touched my muscular chest (also photo-shopped) and found it unexpectedly damp and sticky. And flabby.
And those male models who always have a three-day growth of beard, outlining their rugged, chiseled jaw. My own jaw seems to be chiseled out of play-doh, and as for the three-day beard growth, I have it, but only in patches, being a somewhat carefree and lackadaisical shaver. My face looks like a lawn mowed by a teenager who wasn't paid enough. But with 24-7 Three-D Photo-Shop, grooming worries would be a thing of the past. If I chose, I could always have a three-day growth of beard on my chin. Hell, I'd settle for a three-day growth of beard on my scalp. Nancy would be happy so long as I didn't have a three-day growth of beard coming out of my nostrils.
And with 24-7 3-D P-S (notice the brand slowly morphing into an acronym) Nancy and I would both be transformed into prefect simulacrums of physical beauty. We'd just sit across the room from each other, panting and drooling, in a feverish state of mutual animal lust, nothing to mar the illusion.
So long as we didn't actually touch.