Bad News Hughes

DIARY OF INDIGNITIES
Douchebaggery Through the Ages — A Life in Stupid Pictures


You'd never guess it, but I actually showed a lot of promise the first few years after I was hatched. For example, you can see from my pudgy Aryan glory here that up until the devil got into me I was mysteriously blonde, healthy and happy. I got me a zippy Speed Racer sort of sweater on, and while I don't really recommend pairing long sleeves with short pants my get-up at least seems free from grime, stains and tears. And that football? Man! Sports! Talk about your wholly misguided parental optimism.


It wasn't long before the real me emerged, though, in all my creepy and possibly homosexual glory. It was right around this time I decided I would devote myself to emulating Paul Lynde. I'll let you know how it works out.


This isn't too bad. The whole vampire cowboy thing could have been pulled off a little better without the Down Syndrome haircut, but you gotta work with what you got.


Here's Dad, contemplating the possibility someone switched out his blonde sporty football kid with an evil gay Paul Lynde homonculous somewhere along the way. I imagine he finds the thought comforting, probably to this day.


"This is the kind of bed the astronaut's sleep in," they'd say. I'd slip into dreamland seconds after hearing the click of the padlock.


When I was a kid, there was a company called Imagineering that did a pretty good job of creating products that more or less mapped out the inside of my head. Here I'm sporting their Melting Man kit, a tie-in with a popular movie from the era that featured a protagonist who goes around eating people and, uh, melting, something I thought was just grand. "Perhaps if the Paul Lynde thing doesn't work out I can be the Melting Man when I grow up," I'd say to myself. Mom made me take off the makeup after a couple of months, though.


I'd carry around the leftover googly eyes and fangs everywhere I went. My idea of a perfect day would be to just ride around in the passenger seat of a car with that shit on and stare at people at stoplights, something I did well into my twenties. Oh, that lady on the left? She hated black people.


I'm still not sure how I didn't end up a serial killer.


Or gay. Look at that robe! I mean, it was for a school play and all, but, frankly, I would've happily just walked around in that thing year-round, oblivious to the heckles and catcalls of society and casting little gay spells in my head all the live-long day.


"Why hello there, sailor. Fancy a game of footsy?"


Because it's how I felt on the inside, damn it.


I lied to Mom about the date for school pictures so I could get 'em taken with my favorite shirt, not hers. Look closely and you can see where the print is damaged, at the top of that first O. I was a little excited that morning and wanted to iron it, so I'd look my best.

Oh, I should point out that I hadn't actually seen Mister Bill at that point, despite wearing his shirt at least four times a week. I knew from reading Rolling Stone that he was a character on Saturday Night Live, a show the magazine assured me had a rebellious, counter-culture rock 'n' roll edge. Plus his clips always ended up with him all mashed and on fire and stuff. That was all pretty much good enough for me.

Oh! And also check out my pinkie. Weird!


So I was going through all these photos at my crazy Mom's house a week or two ago, and at one point I was like, "Mom, holy shit, look at me. I'm gay. Totally gay, all these years, and I never knew it."

"What?! Are you really?! Are you gay?! Please don't tell me you're gay," she said, edging toward hysteria.

"Ma, you can't get upset by that," I said. "You're a lesbian. It's not logical."

"Well, are you or aren't you?" she said. "Because my friends ask me all the time."

Ha ha, we got to pretend she has friends.


A glimpse at the New Wave Years. You can see here how the family continued the tradition of torturing children with terrible outfits. They've got poor Neil tricked out like a fucking Batman villain.


I, uhhh... I... I... Sorry, Dad.

Labels: Diary of Indignities