If I had to choose one word to describe myself, that word would
be "average". Average intelligence. Average
income. Average height (well, almost).
In fact, if/when the aliens come I'm pretty sure they'll select me to
inhabit their intergalactic space zoo.
I'll live in a glass enclosure (with a tattoo covered Laotian woman)
beneath an ornate sign that roughly translates to... "Average Earth Specimens".
you laugh, you lose.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about my average-ness. There are far worse things to worry
about. In fact, a face like mine can be
a money maker. For instance, I was once
chosen to be in an advertising campaign because they were looking for... you
guessed it... an average looking white dude.
I didn't even need to pull out my resume for that one.
However, back in my late teens and early 20's, I wasn't as
comfortable in my own skin. I was
particularly sensitive about my looks.
To compensate, I had an overdeveloped estimation of my own intelligence which
manifested itself as a need to "take people down a peg" when
necessary. So when I showed up for my
first Psychology 101 class in college (that just happened to be taught by a 28
year old stud muffin named Biff), something was bound to give.
You see... Biff was a god among men. His skin was bronze. He flaxen hair was long and flowing. His patrician features had been chiseled by
Zeus himself. Biff was also Australian. We didn't know this because of his accent (he
didn't have one... that's how cool this mofo was). We knew he was Australian because it
"happened to come up" roughly 10-20 times a class.
At the beginning of most lectures, Biff would entertain us
with tales of his conference championships (notice the plural) in tennis. He would remind us that the next time we strolled
through the athletic complex, we should stop by and see his name etched multiple
times in the Hall of Fame. We should
count the number of records he held (which still stood even though he had set
them nearly a decade ago). We should bask
in all things Biff.
The icing on the cake... Biff had a girlfriend. But she was no ordinary girlfriend. She was tan, beautiful, blond and stood six
feet tall (all just like Biff). We knew this because it
"happened to come up" roughly 10-20 times a class. As a special surprise for us one day, she even agreed to sit in on
his lecture. For a full hour, we got to see for ourselves
how stunning she was. Biff was on top of
the world. All Hail Biff.
do these abs make me
look awesome?
One day, Biff decided to try something different with our
class. He wanted to really get to know us, perhaps absorb our insignificant light into his own black hole of
awesomeness. Biff asked us to take out a
clean sheet of paper and a pen. He
instructed us to write down the one thing we would do if we knew we wouldn't get caught, and we knew there would be no consequences for our
actions. We were not to sign our names
(total anonymity was required). He wanted us
to answer as truthfully as possible... to really let loose. I
couldn't believe my good fortune. Smoke
rose from my Bic as I penned my response.
After all the notes were collected (and shuffled as to further
obscure the original author), Biff began to read.
The majority of responses fell into two categories (which of
course he knew they would). The first dealt
with the sudden, and illegal, accumulation of wealth (i.e. "I want to rob a bank"). The second category was more disturbing. It dealt with revenge of a personal nature
(i.e. "I want to kill the man who molested my sister"). It was all going as expected. Biff could read us like a book.
Biff continued, one after another. Money... revenge... money... revenge... This
went on for a full 20 minutes. Then he stopped. He stopped and stared in disbelief at the words
written on the sheet of paper in front of him.
The pause in his rhythm stirred the class from its lethargy. Many who were on the verge of sleep, sat up and took notice. Without a word,
Biff balled up the paper and threw it into the trash. As he went to reach for the next sheet, the class reacted. They wanted to
know what he had thrown away.
After much cajoling from the students, Biff reluctantly retrieved
the wadded up paper from the garbage. He slowly opened it up. His face turned red as he struggled to find
his voice. Finally, after much prompting
from the crowd, he read:
"Bang Biff's Girlfriend".
We never heard about Australia, tennis, or his girlfriend
again.
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