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Mr. Wrong

Beauty Is Pain

By Joe MacLeod | Posted 10/25/2000

So the other day, I feel this little twinge on the side of my nose and I know I'm in Big Trouble. Pain, paranoia, self-loathing, obsessive-compulsive behavior, and self-mutilation is in my near future. I'm not psychic, and (except for when my left palm itches and then I get some money--I swear, every time) I don't believe in any of that jazz about being able to see into the future or horoscopes or any of that other Commie crapola, but when I get this little pain on my beak, I know I'm in for it. Fucking doomed, man. It'll only be a day or two before I'll be struck with a deadly, mind-altering, disfiguring, and otherwise totally debilitating Nose Pimple. (I'm sure I don't have to tell you to stop reading now, but you should stop reading, like, right now, because it gets worse.)

So a day or two later, as I am performing my morning ablution, I can already see the traitorous forces of pimplery at work in the underbeneath of my dermis, and I'm thinking, I'm not gonna touch it, it'll hurt for a coupla days, and then it'll go away. If I try to squeeze that sucker, I'm just gonna make it worse. I remember that "Triangle of Death" poster from high school, delineating an area around one's nose wherein if one squeezed pimples one could rupture a blood vessel or something, transferring up into one's brain to kill one instantly. Yes, my body's natural defenses will work day and night to eliminate this problem, and all I gotta do is be at peace with my subconscious mind and this blemish will fade without leaving a trace.

Right, sure. Later that night, I'm standing in front of the bathroom mirror in my jammies (I got the big yellow Pokémon kind with the feet on 'em and the trapdoor in the back for emergencies) and I can see the spot toward the front of my proboscis beginning to achieve the second stage of pimpledom, with the swelling and the redness. Goddamn it, that's it, I'm goin' in. So I start trying to squeeze the shit out of this stupid bump on my nose, and, of course, all I end up doing is making my eyes get all teared up and watery from sharp nose-pains while creating deep fingernail mark indentations and more swelling and redness on my nasal extremity without the satisfaction of a well-executed pimple-squeeze because I just can't get any fucking leverage on the end of my goddamn nose. Jesus Christ, this is disgusting. So now I gotta walk around for a week with a red dot on the end of my nose, and I can see it in the inside corner of my eye and I can't walk straight because I'm looking at it all the time. I'm such a fucking idiot.

What I should be doing is thinking: "HTFWEHHTS?" That's my handy mnemonic-device acronym for "How the Fuck Would Elizabeth Hurley Handle This Shit?" That's right, Elizabeth Fucking Hurley. I don't know if you've been keeping up with her career, but she's a genius, man. I'm wondering how Ms. Hurl would deal with the Nose Pimple thing, because she's got kind of a goofy nose, and she coulda had it snipped, but she knows she's gotta have one thing on her face that people can criticize, and a model can't have squinty eyes or really bad teeth, and she's got pretty good ones for an Englander, if you know what I mean, what with no fluoride or anything in the drinking water, so she's perpetratin' the goofy nose, which is really apparent in the profile shots of her in fine publications of higher thought such as The Star and the The National Enquirer.

Aah, she's got a fucking contract with some giant makeup company, so they probably roll a fucking SWAT team to her deluxe apartment in the sky when she gets that first little twinge of proto-acne. No help there.

But look, I'm telling you, this chick is on top of things. Nothing that happens to her is by chance. She's probably got a whole room in some mansion with her whole life mapped out on a big board, with people pushing around little markers on a table like in one of those WWII movies, since that's the only war all those Britishers care about. Just pushin' around all the little pieces of Operation Hurley with those long stick-pusher things. That whole Hugh Grant deal? That's bullshit, you know it was all about publicity. That guy's just a little cutout figure on the Big Board of Liz Hurley back at Hurley HQ. He gets nailed out on the street acting like Charlie Sheen or Rob Lowe? You gotta be kidding me. Then he goes on fuckin' Jay Leno? And then Her Lizziness stands by her man, who's such an out-of-control man's man that he had to hire some streetwalker to quench his uncontrollable manliness? Bwahahahahaa!

She runs a deep game, man. Look at all the ink they got. And then he gets a movie with Julia Roberts, which he probably woulda got anyway, only not with Julia Roberts, dig? It woulda been a straight-up English movie, like that Four Weddings and a Funeral crap. And now Liz "forgot" not to be a scab in this actors' strike? C'mon, man, girlfriend's got that movie coming out with Brendan Fraser where she's Satan! She gets everybody geared up in the press with the breaking-up-with-Hugh-Grant baloney, then she comes in again strong right before the movie with the scab action. Perfect. All part of The Plan, conveniently known (to me) as TPTMLHTBFSIHATMTOTW: The Plan to Make Liz Hurley the Biggest Fucking Star in Hollywood and Then Maybe Take Over the World. Maybe I damaged my brain squeezing that last pimple inside the Triangle of Death.

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