“What’s A Guy Gotta Do To Get Some Ugly?”
by Chris Janotta
So the other day–on a complete whim–I decided to google images of ugly women. There were, no doubt, some images of some pretty hideous beasts that Google considered women, but still not quite what I was looking for. I decided to see what might happen if I added the word “foreign” into my search. I had hoped that the images that appeared before my eyes would turn out to be ones not to be toyed with (I’m sure the world has many specimens of ghastly womanesque figures strolling around), but I was disappointed; this search turned up some results that were nowhere near the capacity of what I expected.
I needed to find some images that lived up to my standards. By this I mean I wanted to see something that made the insides of my body wretch and turn as if they were silly putty in the hands of a child. I wanted to be so disgusted that my eyes would forever feel the burning pain that had been scorched upon them with the vile features of some monstrous beast of a woman. We’re talking a just-awakened, crusty-eyed Rosie O’ Donnell combined with an Oprah sans makeup multiplied by Whoopi Goldberg’s hair. But nastier. So I tried to up the ante.
After combining such words as “hairy,” “fat,” “Czechoslovakian,” “disgusting,” “god-awful,” “barbaric,” “impossible to be aroused by,” “this is why abortion needs to stay legal,” and “woman my ass, that has to be some sort of reptilian wildebeest wearing a bra,” I was no closer to my goal than I had been before clicking that blue, right-facing arrow at the bottom of the screen four to five hundred times. So I gave up. Yes, I am a quitter, but it was for good reason. Some quests are meant to not be followed, for what if they led to success? I mean, what if I did find what I was looking for? Would it have changed me? Perhaps looking at such a revolting woman would have made me feel sympathy for her, and this surely would go against every mean streak that coats my body like the stripes of a zebra. Or–even worse–what if the woman whose face graced my computer screen was so amazingly unattractive that I somehow found her amazingly uber-attractive? Stranger things have happened, you know. And if this turned out to be the case, it most definitely would change my life forever. And by change, I mean in a bad way, a very, very bad way.
I would suddenly be looking at supermodels with sheer disgust; their so-called “beauty” would force me to shun them as if they were Jehovah’s Witnesses knocking at my door. I’d be softly caressing the mu-mus and old-lady robes in the aisles of department stores instead of the silky lace panties that hang so temptingly on the racks of the women’s department. When watching the Spanish soap operas I would be focusing on the senoritas’ mustaches instead of their tightly covered breasts that lead up to the most cleavage allowed to be shown on television. My god–I might even begin having erotic thoughts about these anomalies and go through jar after jar of Vaseline while thinking about hair-covered skin flaps covering mole-covered skin flaps covering god-knows-what else, but I’m sure it would be either prickly or gooey to the touch and have a stench that is only matched by the hideous pig shaped nose that points upward toward the bushiest eyebrows this side of Martin Scorsese. And as I thought about sliding my tongue into her three-toothed mouth, I would quiver with the excitement of what left-over pieces of food may lie between her yellowed gums and the insides of her puss-covered, chapped, bloody lips. When I finally snapped out of it, my day would revert back to the boring drudgery of every day life, life without even a hint of such seductive grotesqueness.
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