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The other day I got carded while ordering a beer. This isn’t a big deal; I’m 24 and getting to the point where I prefer when people don’t automatically assume I’m 30, married, and sporting a low sperm count. What annoyed me was how, when I showed my I.D., the waitress didn’t believe it was really me.
You see, there’s this weird phenomena when I’m photographed; for some reason, I look different in every picture. There have been so many times when I’ve shown someone a photo from an earlier time in my life (since it’s impossible to show a picture from later in my life), and whomever I was talking to was like, “That’s not you!” But yes, unidentified stranger, it is me.
I’ve decided that I can use this quirk to my advantage. Instead of being bummed out by all the different looks I have, I’m going to use five different pictures of myself to create five different alternate personalities.
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Mullet Chris:
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Through some shoddy photo editing which left shadows in the exact spots where wonderful locks of hair would flow majestically in a more brazen fellow, this Chris, featured in my latest college ID, has a mullet. And let me tell you: nothing excites the college coeds from Girls Gone Wild like a grad student sporting the mullet.
The poor editing also made it look as if both my arms have been
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amputated. I’ll use this personality for when I’m trying to get served alcohol in the deep south, when I want to convince people I should be allowed to screw my cousin, or when I’m lying to girls and saying I’m a Vietnam vet who jumped on a landmine to save my buddy and lost both my arms. Maybe I’ll even convince a nice young woman to help me
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out in the bedroom, since, with no arms, I’m not able to, um, take care of myself... you know...sexually? Of course, showing the picture of me with no arms will not exactly mesh well with actually having arms, but I’ll figure some way around that small problem.
To complete the ruse, I’ve further edited the photo to give the complete Southern-amputee-in-need-of-lovin’ picture. Notice the confederate flag bandana and missing teeth. Can I buy ya a drink,
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honey? Just take the change outta my pocket...I’d do it myself, but I ain’t got no arms.
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Cancer patient Chris:
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This Chris has been battling cancer for six months now. Look at his pale complexion and the look of defeat in his face: he’s nearly licked.
This was my ID shot during my brief stint as a college professor. At 22, not only did I have to endure constantly being mistaken for a (well-dressed) student, but I also had to put up with the looks of pity I received whenever the questioning party glanced at my ID and a time
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in my life where I must have been very, very ill. I received more conciliatory pats on the shoulder and fruit baskets than I could count.
Instead of being depressed by this sick version of myself, I’m going to stop explaining that it was just a really bad picture and just embrace the deception with it, even going as far as showing a new, sicker-looking version. The fruit baskets will get bigger and the pats on my shoulder more concerned. Maybe I’ll even get a structure named after me: The Chris is Dying Memorial Hot Dog Stand. Try the chili dog; it’s delicious. The slogan will be “Chris is dying...for a great hot dog!”
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Molester Chris:
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Hide the women and children; it’s Molester Chris. Whether it’s groping unsuspecting ladies or picking up kids in his white van, Molester Chris is all about touching those who don’t want to be touched.
This is actually my license picture, which is great for me whenever I’m carded or pulled over; the waitress or bartender inherently hide pictures of kids, nephews, and the police officers run my plates against
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those of known sex offenders. Whenever this Chris moves into a new neighborhood, he goes around and introduces himself to all the neighbors not as a part of Megan’s Law, but as a simple courtesy as well as to check the security systems of the houses with kids 10 and younger.
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Need a babysitter? Call Molester Chris. Have an ass that needs grabbing? Send Molester Chris a text. He’ll be glad to take care of all your creepy needs, free of charge.
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So for your next dinner party, give all of these Chris’s a call. Cancer Chris will talk about the danger of carcinogens to Constipated Chris, who’ll need to use the bathroom. Molester Chris will grope someone’s girlfriend only to be pounded by Beefcake Chris. Mullet Chris will hit on his sister, who is 8, and gain the approval of Molester Chris. And I’ll be there to catalogue it all.
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