My Über-Extreme Make-Over

I’m looking to make some very big changes; changes so big that an extreme make-over seems like a half-assed half-measure. An extreme make-over is probably fine for people who don’t have very far to go; it’s like taking a bicycle for a short trip. I think that what I need is the make-over equivalent of a long ride on the Millennium Falcon. Because I couldn’t remember the name I had to Google “Millennium Falcon.” Among Star Wars geeks you probably risk getting beat up for that lack of trivia knowledge. I doubt anyone will think that I’m bragging when I say that in a group of Star Wars dorks I would be doing the ass kicking and wedgy giving. But before my digression I was talking about making some changes, getting sexier, more hip, more rico, more sauve, more je ne sais quoi.

Staying on the cutting edge of fashion is a lot of work. By “cutting edge of fashion” I’m talking about 1979 but still. It ain’t easy. I’m letting my hair grow out and depending on how many days I let pass without washing it I go from looking like a country western singer to a professional wrestler—two demographics I’m not particularly interested in courting. The only word of encouragement I receive from my friends concerning this hair-growing venture is “Yikes!” Maybe a new wardrobe would help to boost my image?

Damn, I thought that black was supposed to make you look skinny. Or is black supposed to make you look pregnant?  If that’s the case then well done, color black.  I just caught a sideways glance of myself in the mirror and at first I thought someone was sneaking up behind me until I realized it was just my back fat. What about stripes? Aren’t they supposed to make you look thin? Yeah, I think that’s right. I just hope they don’t charge me by the stripe. It supposedly creates some sort of an optical illusion so instead of seeing my gut people see an old woman or a lamp. Or do they see a pirate? Anyway, I read about it in the back of a magazine somewhere.

Do you know what really makes me look fat? Cheese makes me look huge. I don’t mean to pick on cheese, or single it out because cheese has had a lot of help in his evil work of forcing me to drill another hole in my belt (one more hole and I think I get a free set of steak knives!).  But I have bigger problems adversely affecting my sex appeal, issues that can’t be solved by simply having less gravitational pull. I hate to tip-toe around the issue but there may be children reading this so how can I put this delicately? How about this: “My cock is too small.” The thing is, I didn’t use to have this problem but while I was quietly deleting all of those spam emails, all the other men on the planet were taking them up on these offers of enhanced male-dom.  After about the tenth time I asked why they were laughing in the bedroom I became suspicious of the stock answer women gave of, “Oh, just something I heard at work today.”  My unilateral opting out of the phallic arms race has moved me from a figurative to a literal position when speaking of “holding my own.”

Everyone has heard it said that looks don’t matter, that what women are really interested in is personality. It’s probably safe to say that this axiom was probably written by someone who actually has a personality. How does one make-over a personality? I’ve heard of wiring your jaws shut to lose weight so maybe this could kill two birds with one elective surgery? I mean, how offensive could a guy be who can’t actually talk? I haven’t looked into the procedure but it must make you a better listener.