comedian, humorist, winner of the American Comedy Award. [with Michelle J. Li]
Body dysmorphia has got to go. This is this ignant disease where you don’t know what you look like. It’s similar to another condition that I believe is called “crazy eyes”— not the way that other people see you (“Look at that fool Marty Feldman— he’s got some crazy eyes!”), but the way you see yourself. The insanity, which we use as our vision, surfaces when we get dressed to go somewhere where we think people will be looking at us with the same crazy eyes that we have. There is a cure for this disease, but, sadly, people don’t really think that it works. The cure is, nobody cares what you look like except you and your crazy eyes. It’s a tough pill to swallow, like a horse pill you have to take with a gallon of Sparklett’s to get the whole thing down, and even then it just sticks in your throat, creating a pharmaceutical Adam’s apple. That’s nasty, thinking that nobody cares what you look like except you, but that’s because they’re too busy looking at themselves, thinking about what’s wrong with them and dealing with their own crazy eyes. And even if they do care about what you look like, it’s only a momentary, fleeting thought,a brief overview and comparison between what you look like against what they think they look like, so the thought isn’t really about you, it’s about them and their crazy eyes, not you and your crazy eyes. So fuck it. You’re both crazy, and that’s final.
Crazy eyes is not fatal, but it can lead to other diseases that are. It is a gateway to other diseases, just like marijuana is a gateway to other drugs, and the “munchies,” which is a gateway to crazy eyes. If left untreated, crazy eyes will get worse, and could develop into disordered eating, which leads to the wonderful world of Bulimarama (Try ‘em all! Bulimarexia, Good Ol’ Binge’n’Purge, Exercise Bulimia, Laxative Bulimia, “I’m starting my diet tomorrow so I have to get it all in before midnight” Bulimia, Honey Mustard Bulimia) and the Grim Reaper, Anorexia, coming to claim the lives of young women, much like consumption did in the Victorian era. She’s a tall, gaunt figure, chic and wiry, draped in black muslin, but instead of a scythe this skeleton has a fork and spoon, because even death thinks you need a good hearty meal of macaroni and cheese to fortify you for your long journey into the afterlife.
And then, what if you die before you reach your goal weight of forty-five pounds? Perhaps your narrow—ass ghost will be condemned to roam the metropolitan shopping malls of your past, like the poor old prisoners who, even in death, refuse to leave their cells on Alcatraz. Will the dressing—room doors in Urban Outfitters creak open, then slam shut, for no reason? Supernatural shrieks coming from inside the slatted stalls, “I NEED A LARGER SIZE!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! HELPPPPPP MEEEEEEEE!” as clerks rush in and find nobody there, nothing but the lingering scent of almond vomit, a chill in the air and a size 0 pair of Frankie B. jeans turned inside out on the floor.
Or maybe you will find your way to heaven. God knows, you deserve it, having put yourself through a correspondence course in hell, getting your GED in suffering in the precious few days of your tragic life, all the while maintaining a rigorous workout schedule and an insufficient caloric intake. Will the first thing you ask when you reach the Pearly Gates, which, thankfully for you, is atop an impossibly long flight of cement steps, be, “Where’s the gym?”
Crazy eyes is wildly contagious. Everybody has some form of it. The people who pick and choose the images that we see daily on TV, in movies, in magazines and advertising— everywhere— have the craziest eyes of all, which is why this malady is worse than most other forms of biological warfare. Smallpox’s got nothing on CE. Crazy eyes is the ultimate weapon of mass destruction because it works slowly, eroding the mind and the spirit and eventually the body, pound by pound inch by inch, and it sets its crazy sights upon young women, who provide the gateway to future generations. If crazy eyes escalated to pandemic proportions, which is the next level up from the epidemic we have now, there would be a massive shortage of females capable of reproduction. Even if all of us didn’t die right away from CE, and the diseases caused by CE infection, low body weight would make menstruation impossible, and procreation rare and difficult. This, along with the few remaining fertile women unwilling to become pregnant because they don’t want to look “fat,” would eventually kill off the human race altogether.
And today, with the advent of the Internet, and the crazy eyes of the media enforcing their crazy vision on the global optic nerve, as the world gets smaller through technology, becomes more and more uniform in its tastes, customs, practices, beliefs, ideals, collective dreams and nightmares— as cultures homogenize and pasteurize and become one solid block of cheese nobody is going to eat— crazy eyes will spread faster than a wildfire in Granada Hills. Don’t act like I’m some crackpot who is about to put this manifesto on a sandwich board and walk up and down the Third Street Promenade with a megaphone and those joke glasses with the eyeballs on springs popping out. You know crazy eyes is real. You have probably suffered from it at some time in your life. I’m a CE survivor, and I live in fear for others who may not have the strength or even the reason to save themselves.
There is hope. Crazy eyes is even easier to fix than astigmatism or glaucoma. You don’t even need to get laser surgery on your retinas. Prevention is the best line of defense.When you look at yourself in the mirror, you can say only one thing: “I look fine.” Do not think about what you are today or yesterday— or ever. Do not change your outfit. Do not say anything about yourself to yourself. Do not think about the way you look again. Think instead about how nice it is that somebody loves you, or that your dog is so sweet when she follows the sunlight as it moves across the sky, napping at every window with such regularity that you could set your watch by her gentle snores and dog dreams, or that you miss someone and maybe you should call them, or if you can’t call them because they are not around anymore think about how much you loved them and why, or how much you hated them and why, or about how the thoughts of love or hate can be equally provocative and tantalizing, or that sometimes there really is an easy way to do things, or that popcorn is always a good thing to get at the movies, or that you can stay home and watch TV if you want to, not even committing to a specific show— just flipping for no reason except that you want to, or that it’s weird that certain colors are called that, like why is blue called blue— or whatever ignant or smart or sad or stupid or funny or brilliant or ridiculuos thought to fill your mind with instead of “Do I look okay?”
Stop crazy eyes before it starts. You look fine.