Someone recently told me I look like Doug Benson. This person has been living in the living room of my new apartment, allegedly searching for a job, supposedly applying to UT and ostensibly looking for somewhere else to live (but mostly drinking beer and making unwanted observations).
Alright, he didn’t tell me I looked like Doug Benson. What he said, Mr. Detective, is that I look like I could be related to Doug Benson. Same dif.
I was preparing my Thanksgiving turkey at the time. I paused in my frantic buttering of the turkey to give him what-for. He soon regretted his statement, realizing he had unleashed a demon that only speaks in an extremely high pitch. “WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
“I just mean…”
“WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?”
“You have the same, you know, mannerisms.”
“FUCK YOU FOREVER.”
Hell hath no fury like a woman who has been told she looks like Doug Benson.
I have a long history of someone telling me I look like someone else, and typically the other person is an ogre. So this isn’t technically new territory. Something about Benson really stings. It’s not just the numerous face problems (unkempt neck hair, eyes barely open, cheeks bloated with stale marijuana).We all have an idea of how we look. We don’t always live up to the ideal. Which is why the “un-tag” feature exists on Facebook, a button I’ve had occasion to click, oh, maybe 10 million times.
Because nobody needs this in their life.
If you have a nightmare about the she-beast in this picture standing over you in your sleep, waiting for you to wake up so she can eat you, I’m sorry. Try to forget so we can conduct a scientific study.
Below is me after a long day of camping, hiking up a hill to the scintillating Mason-Dixon Line, and eating several hard-boiled eggs. I’m introducing this into evidence because I think it clearly demonstrates a central feature of my general appearance: Contempt for the series of events that led to my surroundings. Mason Dixon Line? Eggs? What was I thinking.
Doug Benson, on the other hand.
No idea what the fuck is going on, ever.
Yet I was forced to stare at myself hard, in the mirror. And ask those nearest to me if I they thought I looked like Doug Benson.
“Yeah, around the eyes,” came the response, from both my mother and my boyfriend.
Now, based on Fig 1, taken during senior year of college, when all I did was study real hard, hide from the sun, and eat giant bowls of pasta with my hands to stay awake, you might think there is something to the theory that I in some way resemble Doug Benson. But what you’re seeing is just two bland, white people faces, puffed up by bad choices.
You have to go by the pictures that were taken on a GOOD day.
This picture was taken in a museum cafe, in Taiwan. Hmm, travelling the world, appreciating art? This girl seems like she has her SHIT TOGETHER.
Doug Benson, shined up by handlers to attend an event:
“Buh-huh, nice teapot. You know what would be awesome? A bong shaped like a teapot. Get it? Tea POT. Am I right?”
Shut up, Doug Benson. (I don’t actually think that’s how Doug Benson tells jokes. I’m a fan, especially Getting Doug with High, especially this episode).
Would Doug Benson run for president, like this girl is planning on doing?
I think not.
I bristle and fizz with a clear-headed, highly-caffeinated forward march at every waking moment. I do aerobics and, while it has yet to be used, I have the wherewithal to own a juicer. Doug Benson, on the other hand, has an entire universe of shtick based on his sloppy, beanbag appearance, milking all the charm (?) of a plump, perpetually baked baby.
We enjoy his company, certainly. But for him, the essential perk of his lifestyle is that no one will ever ask him to do anything. When someone invites him to a potluck, they do so knowing full well he’s going to show up with a single pouch of Capri Sun, for himself, and a fanny pack brimming with prescription Alaskan Thunder Fuck. “Because it’s a POT luck. Right? This was all I was supposed to bring, right?” And we’ll all laugh, because we love that dope. He would never butter a turkey the night before Thanksgiving. There’s nothing funny about planning ahead. (For the record, when I attend a potluck, I never show up with anything less than an entire ham and my own chandeliers.)
But hang on. Where have I seen those ruddy cheeks before?
We do look pretty similar, actually.
Luckily, I base all of my self-esteem on things besides my face. Like my butt. And my intelligence.