The Mighty Beginnings

A few weeks ago I went to my mother’s house and she, being the mother that she is, pulled out some old photo albums so I could relive my shameful and pathetic youth. During this nightmare-inducing trip down memory lane, it was gleefully pointed out to me by everyone in my family (and HoBiscuit) that I had to have been one of the least cool kids ever to walk the face of the earth. In fact, by constitutional law, had I been any less cool then I was the Partridge family would have shown up at my door and beaten me to death with H. R. Puffnstuff dolls while singing the Brady Bunch’s greatest hits.

I now present Exhibit A.

Obviously, this picture was taken some time around Groundhogs Day. Or maybe it was Flag Day. Whenever it was, please allow me to draw your attention to the highly flammable, sweat inducing, choking hazard, some-kind-of-plastic-blend jump suit complete with painted on zipper that I’m wearing. And you can’t see them in this picture, but this outfit also included matching slippers that you could put over your shoes.

Just look at how happy I was to be dressed up like a big, red, six million dollar schmuck.

If you look closely, you’ll notice that my left eye has a red circle around it. This circle of cheap lipstick, lovingly brought to you by my mother, signified my Telescopic Bionic Eye. It was not a ‘shiner’ inflicted upon me by the neighborhood bully, because fortunately for me the neighborhood bully never saw me in this outfit. Somehow, my heretofore latent ‘geek alarm’ went off and I managed to use the paper dreidel hanging on the wall behind me to slit my wrists before I was forced to leave the apartment. Had I actually left the house and gone Trick-or-Treating, I would have been forced to give myself a good, old fashioned Brooklyn Beatdown just to show the other kids that I knew I was a dork.

Unfortunately, I truly believed my mother when she told me I was ‘adorable’ and posed for this picture. Sucker.

Looking lower, you’ll notice my complete lack of any form of male genitalia. I believe that my inability to get a girlfriend until the age of seventeen can be directly traced back to this outfit. I’m convinced that upon realizing just what a loser I was, my ‘nads simply threw in the towel and crawled back into my body’s gonad cavity to hibernate during the long, cold sexual winter of my teenage years.

But the torture doesn’t end there.

Exhibit B.

Taken at roughly the same age as Exhibit A. Notice my younger brother with his jean jacket and Popeye shirt. He’s hip, he’s cool, he’s got that sparkle in his eyes that seems to say, “Yeah, baby. You know you want me.” All the cool kids at school would want to hang with him because he probably gets all the fly honeys to share his mat during naptime.

Oh yeah, my brother was the pimp Mac Daddy of the schoolyard.

Now look at me. What girl would be interested in such a skinny, silly looking geek? I don’t even have a fly jacket and what’s that shirt I’ve got on? Could it be? Oh my god, it is. An original, guaranteed girl repelling, fresh from the bins at Wal-Mart “Up Your Nose With A Rubber Hose” T-shirt. The only thing less cool I could be wearing in this picture would be a bright orange, cut off T-shirt with a metallic, iron-on Fonzie with thumbs in the air saying, “Aaaaaye!”

Oh damn, I think I had one of those too.