Lindsay Lohan Hates My Body

 

This is weird. I mean this started out as a joke, but it doesn’t feel like a joke right now…it feels sexy. I feel sexy.  Yeah, this is definitely weird.

  “I can’t stop staring."

 “I know! It’s disturbing that he looks so good.”

      These catcalls belong to my friends, who follow behind me as I strut down the dark city street. It’s clear that all of us are trying to deal with this new feeling we don’t fully understand.

      A Honda Civic full of cute Asian girls pulls up to us and asks for directions. I notice the streetlight hanging above them and seize the opportunity. I walk into the street and bask under my spotlight.  I watch the girls look from me to my legs, which are completely exposed except for the very top parts that are concealed by a pair of tight yellow short shorts that fit perfectly around my hips and upper thighs like a glove, a love glove, for my junk.   

     This scene makes the girls laugh in awe. This makes me happy so I do a jig, throwing my hairy, milky lower limbs about in the cold air. This causes the girls to let loose a series of their own catcalls. And shrieks. Yes shrieks, like they’re watching Elvis shaking his hips in person. 

        For the rest of our walk I’m on such a high it feels like I’m floating. I mean I really changed those girls’ lives.  I don’t feel sexy anymore; I feel even better, I feel like I’m doing God’s work.  We reach The Drawing Room, the neighborhood dive bar, and the bouncer tells us it’s dead inside as he checks our IDs. Perhaps a resurrection is in order, I think. I laugh at my own cleverness.   

         We walk into the bar and I find that the bouncer is right, this place is dead. Except for the group of people in their mid-twenties on the far end of the bar, standing in front of the jukebox.I have no choice, I must go to them. So I do, leaving my friends behind.    

          As I get closer I realize everyone in this group is very good looking. Not like normal good looking, but like Zoolander-really-really-ridiculously-good-looking, especially the blonde one in the middle who’s talking to some beautiful man. This is LA so I’m not totally shocked, but still, it’s kind of intimidating. Whatever, I brush it off. Beautiful people are just like everybody else, they want to be entertained by a sensuous jester who wears a golden cloth about his loins yet allows his rugged, voluptuous legs to run wild and unconstrained.   

       A new song starts up just as I reach the group. A boy and girl separate themselves from the rest of the pack and start to dance. Remembering my track record with dancing, I immediately approach them and do the same.           

     God’s work. 

     But they do not see God’s work in my leg thrusts and quick pivots, they see a person they do not know, that they do not want to know, that they hate.  They sneer at me disapprovingly. I give the couple a smile to put them at ease. 

       But my goofy smile does not melt their hearts, instead it only quickens their retreat back to their group. I watch as they whisper to the others. I see eyes darting to and away from me. It’s clear by the disgust on their faces that they are not impressed with me, but no one dares speak. 

       No one, that is, until she sees me.  Yes she, the bleach blonde girl who had been talking with the beautiful man. She is the last to notice me, but she has the biggest reaction.  Her eyes widen and her mouth opens up and forms a huge O.

      “Oh my God!” She shouts loudly.  “Why would you wear that? You have nothing to show!” 

       I only hear silence after this. I’m not sure if everyone in the bar has stopped talking or if my ears have just stopped working. Then I hear her words again as they bounce around in my brain.   

       You have nothing to show!

       You have nothing to show!

       YOU! Have! Nothing! To Show!

       What does that even mean? I have nothing to show? I have everything to show! Sure it’s hairy and parts of it haven’t seen the light of day in long time, but it’s still something! Right? 

        I look down at my lower torso and realize I don’t even know anymore. 

        I leave the beautiful people and buy a drink.  

        The bartender hands me my beer and I look over to my friends. I can see that they’re arguing about something. Good, maybe they didn’t see what just happened. I’ll just play it real cool when I approach them, act like nothing happened.

       I casually approach Dave.  “What are you guys arguing about?”  I ask him. 

     “We’re arguing about that girl that just embarrassed the shit out of you.” 

     “Which one?” I say coolly.

     “The one who’s Lindsay Lohan.” 

     “She’s not Lindsay Lohan.” Cormac responds.

     “Yes she is dude, I’m positive.”

     “You’re crazy. Why would Lindsay Lohan hang out at a dive bar on a Wednesday night?” 

     “Because she’s Lindsay Lohan!” Dave says. 

       I have to admit that does make a lot of sense. But there’s no way that’s Lilo, I would have recognized her.

       I look back at the beach blonde. Oh my God, that could be Lilo.  I suddenly feel myself getting very excited. I mean if this is true it would be one of the biggest moments in the history of humanity. Well, it would at least be the biggest moment out of all the moments where a hot chick has publicly decried my legs.

      But I can’t count my chickens yet. First I have to be sure. Which means we have to return to the scene of the crime.   

     Two minutes later we return from the scene of the crime and we’ve all come to the same conclusion. That blonde girl is, without a doubt, Lindsay Herpes Lohan (too much?).  

         Now I can’t hear anything again, and this time I know that it’s not because everyone has stopped talking, it’s because I have discovered that a trashy celebrity just ridiculed my body and my brain doesn’t know how to handle it.    

        “What are you gonna say to her?” Dave asks. “You should tell her she should be kind to you because you’re both kindred spirits.” 

        “What do you mean?” I ask.

         “She’s a ginger, like you.”

         That’s right, I remember. She is a natural red head. A ginger.  A firecrotch. Just like me.   But as I look upon this celebrity in front of me I don’t see a female version of myself, I see a girl who has forgotten that those poisoned blonde Hollywood drapes don’t match the goofy, fun loving carpet below. I see a girl who has forgotten who she really is. And I realize that tonight isn’t about getting revenge, it’s about a girl who needs to be saved.  

         God’s work.    

         The bartender announces last call and I see Lindsay and her minstrel of douches start to gather their things.  It’s now or never. I get within arm’s reach and I stick out a leg, blocking her path.  

       “Take a good, long look,” I say. “Because this is the last time you’re ever gonna see anything this good again.”

       We both look down at my exposed leg. But the question is, do we see the same thing?   “I’ve seen better.” She says coldly before leaving the bar.  Well that certainly was anticlimactic, I think to myself.  

        The next week I saw Lindsay on the news, the police had busted her for stealing a necklace. My first thought was, “if only she had seen the light…”
        Now am I saying that if she had smiled or laughed at me and my shorts that she wouldn’t have stolen the necklace? No, no one can know that for sure.      
       But I do know that if she had enjoyed our moment, and embraced her inherent appreciation for absurdity that all gingers are born with, she wouldn’t have needed the necklace, because she would have something much greater: true happiness.
       Instead, she’s going to prison. I guess that’s the hardest part about doing God’s work, you can’t save everyone.