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5:48 a.m. - 2003-10-23


So I'm sitting in a meeting yesterday with our advertising agency and we're going over a budget for the models that we've chosen for a new ad campaign.

We get to one model who...truth be told ... ain't that pretty in the first place.

She wants $8,400 for us to use her photo.

Here's a little comparison ... Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's family only wants $2,000 to use his likeness.

I balked.

"She's not THAT pretty!" I said. "I refuse to pay eight grand for her!"

The lady from the advertising agency then said I had a choice.

I could find a beautiful brunette between the ages of 25 and 45 with expressive eyes to take her place.

I was given a quest.

Find a beautiful woman and talk her into being a model whose face would be plastered in magazines and billboards.




I had finally found my dream job ... flattering beautiful women.

I quickly excused myself, ran to the bathroom and jerked a nut into the urinal, tickled shitless that I had reached the absolute pinnacle of my work experience.

I went back to the meeting and began writing a list of all the beautiful brunettes that I knew personally whose face would look good when it was blown up to seven feet tall on a billboard.

I came up with two ladies.

My problem?

I'm a sucker for blondes.

I very rarely notice brunettes. Sad but true.

But a blonde turns my head every time.

I called the first one.

"Janie," I said. "We've known each other...what? Ten years?"

"Yeah," she said, belching.

"Have I ever told you how utterly beautiful you are?" I asked.

"UNCLE BOB!!" she said, using my real name and not "Uncle Bob" because to the best of my knowledge, she has no idea I'm Uncle Bob, savior of the universe.

I then went into detail about how we needed someone who was naturally beautiful for an ad campaign. She listened for a while and then said "I wish I hadn't just gotten these braces last week."


I prayed she was talking about her legs and not her teeth.


She was now a brace-face.

Apparently it's chic now for grown women to wear braces.

So she's out of the question.

But I think she was turned on by the fact that I finally admitted I thought she was hot, since we had always just been buds before this.

Now she was horny for me.

She probably found a urinal and jerked a nut into it or whatever women do when they're uncontrollably horny at work.

So I called the second girl on the list.

No answer.

I was stuck.

I called the ad agency and asked them what to do.

My job just got tougher.

"Go to several bars tonight. Take a digital camera. Talk to beautiful women and coersce them to give you their name, phone number and pose for a photo for you."

Holy hell.

Hugh Hefner doesn't have it THIS good.

I enlisted my neighbor Troy to go out to a few bars with me last night, explaining to his wife that he would be helping me do "research" for an ad campaign.

I got Troy in the car and explained the mission to him.

He squealed.

He literally fucking squealed. Like a little girl at a Backstreet Boys concert.

(Side thought...are the Backstreet Boys still together? I keep hearing rumors that they've broken up. Please, someone let me know the truth. I'm all a'flutter over this.)

We go to the first bar and it's dead. The hottest brunette in there was Troy.

And he's got a serious five o'clock shadow working for him.

The next bar had a few women but they all looked way too young for the demographic we're trying to reach. We're talking fake ID young.

Plus, I was told that in a barroom setting, we may run across women with abnormally thick amounts of makeup on. We were looking for NATURAL beauty ... not painted on beauty.

Once again ... I'm a sucker for heavily made-up women too. A woman that spends a large amount of time painting her face will spend a large amount of time focused on my testicles if you get my drift.

The third bar we hit a jackpot.

Women out the ying-yang.

I had my business cards and the advertisement with the woman that we were going to use before she became more expensive than a used Camaro.

I walked up to my first table with three gorgeous brunettes occupying it.

"Excuse me," I said. "I hate to interupt you ladies..."

"Then DON'T," one of them snipped at me.

Oh man.

Oh fucking man.

"But I'm so-and-so (handing out my business card) and I'm on a search for beautiful women who would like to appear in an advertisement that will be seen in over a million magazines."

All three smiled big.

The competition between them had started.

I went into a long rambling spiel about how we couldn't afford to pay much and that I needed to take some photos of them.

Little Miss Snippy spoke up first.

"Should we take the photos outside?" she said, changing her tune from nasty to nice.

Here it comes.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "You really wouldn't fit the demographic we're looking for. Your friends have the expressive eyes that I need."



I'm not sure if you've ever seen a total bitch deflate after being shot down in a bar, but it's prettier than a ten-dollar whore.

I escorted her friends to the back of the bar where it was well lit around the bathrooms and took several photos of them.

Nabbed their phone numbers and names.

And thanked them for their time.

Then ... I went around the room, doing the spiel, taking the photos and love, love, LOVING my job.

Naturally, it would have been a whole lot cooler if I didn't have a wife and son at home.

We'll see if any of them make it in the advertisement.

I'm hoping so.

Because I might just start a new career path ... the model search guy.


It's the job I was born for.

Either that or janitor at a used book store.

I always get the two mixed up.

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