by Shane Dawson
CAROLisWET: Your penis.
Ilikenipplerings: Um . . . . . . . why?
CAROLisWET: Cause I like penises. They are cool. And they make Carol wet.
Ilikenipplerings: Can’t you just like . . . Google a picture of one?
CAROLisWET: But I want to see yours. I bet it’s super . . . . . . tan?
I’m not great at sexy talk. But hey, neither was he, so we were evenly matched.
Ilikenipplerings: So like . . . if I take a pic of it and send it to you . . . you will show me your boobs?
CAROLisWET: And my vagina.
Ilikenipplerings: ?!?!?!!?!!
CAROLisWET: Yep. All 8 inches of it.
I had never seen a vagina so I assumed length was a part of it. I was incorrect.
Ilikenipplerings: K. Make me hard first.
CAROLisWET: No. I like soft penises.
Ilikenipplerings: Really? That’s kinda gross.
CAROLisWET: Do you want to see me naked or not?
Ilikenipplerings: G2g. Brb.
For those of you who aren’t kids of the ’00s, that means “got to go” and that he’d “be right back.” I took that to mean he was freaked the fuck out and was throwing his computer out the window. I felt defeated. I guess my plan wasn’t perfect. Maybe I was too forceful? Maybe I wasn’t as seductive as I could have been? I was just about to head to the kitchen. Then it happened.
BING.
I ran to my computer and cracked it back open. What I saw was a new picture message from Ilikenipplerings and oh dear God was it horrifying.
Ilikenipplerings: So baby, U like?
Baby didn’t like, baby LOVED. It was a picture of his horrifyingly small, shriveled-up penis placed on top of his lopsided, weirdly shaped balls. If this picture was seen by anyone they would think it was a toddler with some kind of birth defect. I slammed my computer shut and locked my door. I knew this was what I’d wanted but I had the sinking feeling that I’d gone too far. I knew this kid was an asshole, but did he deserve to have his life ruined? I took the rest of the night to think about my decision. I had his adolescence in the palm of my hand and I could easily crush it if I wanted to. I decided to just print out one of the pictures and put it in my backpack. That way if he said something mean to me I could whip it out and show it to everyone and get my sweet shriveled revenge.
The next day I walked into school with my head held high. I was ready for that group of kids to knock me down in the hallway because I had something they didn’t: a picture of a penis in my backpack. I went into class and sat with my surfer group.
Me: So. What did you guys do last night?
Surfer Kid 2: Got into a fight with my mom about whether or not Hamburger Helper is still Hamburger Helper if she doesn’t put hamburger in it.
Me: Hmm. Intriguing.
Surfer Kid 3: I looked at my dad’s porn. I found some really weird shit in his room. There was like a picture of a lady peeing into a Crock-Pot.
Me: Nice. What about you?
Surfer Kid 1: Huh?
Me: What did you do last night?
Surfer Kid 1: Oh . . . nothin’.
He looked like a train had hit him. His face was limp and pale. He looked like a guy who’d had his heart broken . . . oh shit.
Surfer Kid 2: You ok, bro?
Surfer Kid 1: Ya. I’m fine.
He wasn’t fine. He was miserable. Like a puppy that had gotten its balls cut off. I didn’t want to feel bad for him but unfortunately underneath all my big fat layers was an even bigger fat heart.
Surfer Kid 3: You fuck that chick from polo yet? I heard she shaves now.
Surfer Kid 1: Nah. I’m over chicks for a while.
He put his head down on his backpack and sank deeper into his depression. I felt horrible. This guy was hurting and it was my fault. I can’t imagine how it must have felt to send a stranger a picture of you at your most vulnerable and have them not even respond to tell you how “not disgusting” it was. I told the teacher I had a bathroom emergency and poofed out my stomach to make it look EXTRA urgent. I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I pulled the picture of his micro penis out of my pocket and gave it one last look. It really was disgusting. I crumpled it up and threw it in the toilet. Before I flushed I made a pact with myself that I would never stoop as low as anyone who was bullying me. The feeling I got from knowing I had hurt this asshole’s heart was even worse than the feeling I got when he and his friends had called me a fat robot animal. It wasn’t worth it. I flushed the toilet and went back to class feeling a little better about myself.
That night I opened up my sick Dell and deleted Carol from the internet. I didn’t need her anymore. I also deleted AIM, because let’s be honest, I didn’t need that anymore either. I was the original catfish before catfishing was even a thing. I did it before it was a term on Urban Dictionary or a heavily scripted reality show on MTV. And from that day forward I would never again pretend to be anybody who I’m not. Instead I just Photoshop the absolute SHIT out of my own pictures to make me look like a completely different person. But hey, don’t we all do that?
BETWEEN HOLLYWOOD AND AN ABORTION CLINIC
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Natalia Armenta is in the eleventh grade at California Military Institute. She has been drawing since elementary school and learned more about art in Ms. Hoxmeier’s art class. She is considering a career in clothing design, or even drawing manga. She has lived most of her life in Perris, California. Follow her on Twitter at @armenta_natalia.
Every kid hopes that one day they will be walking around a mall and have a stranger in a business suit walk up to them and say, “Hey . . . You should be in the movies! I’m a big Hollywood agent. Give me a call after you finish that disgusting cheese-filled pepperoni pretzel dog.” But stuff like that only happens on TV, right? Wrong. This is the story of how I was discovered in a shopping mall while stuffing my pimple-covered, eighteen-year-old face full of “frozen yogurt.” I put “frozen yogurt” in quotations because let’s keep it real. It’s ice cream. It’s sugary, topping-covered diabetes-in-a-cardboard-bucket ice cream. Watching obese people go directly from their Weight Watchers meeting to a frozen yogurt shop is like watching all those poor people fall off the sides of the Titanic when it was sinking. If they only knew how that cold water would kill them.
So I was walking around my local mall in Long Beach one summer afternoon in 2007. I had graduated from high school a year before that, and I was trying to figure out my next move. I had lost a shit-ton of weight and gotten my signature emo haircut, so I had my sights set on being a Disney Channel star. I even had my own catchphrase: “Hey! That’s YO mama!” Trust me, in the right sitcom with the right story line it could have worked. Anyways, I was trying to find some new clothes to match my new look: young, fresh teenager. So I went into an Urban Outfitters and started searching through all the ironic T-shirts. Ten Chuck Norris references later, I decided that it might not be my store. As I was leaving, a sad-looking woman in a turtleneck and high-rise pants walked up to me and grabbed my arm.
Sad Woman: Wow. You look familiar!
Me: A lot of older women tell me I have the eyes of their ex-husbands. Well . . . that’s mainly just my mom.
Sad Woman: Hey! And you’re funny too!
Me: I wasn’t joking, but thanks!
Sad Woman: You kind of look like that guy on TV!
Me: The “Dude, you’re getting a Dell” guy? Ya, I get that a lot. Not as much anymore since he killed himself.
Sad Woman: No! I’m talking about YOU!
Me: I’m a little confused. Is this a hidden-camera show? Did you guys see me pick my ass and sniff it when I was over there looking at ironic bumper stickers? ’Cause I wasn’t smelling for poop, it’s just a weird habit. Probably a childhood thing. Something about loneliness and forcing unpleasantness upon my undeserving self.<
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Sad Woman: No, I’m trying to tell you that you should BE on TV! Are you an actor?
Me: Ya! I was in my high school musical!
Sad Woman: Great! What part?
Me: Fat guy with no song.
Sad Woman: Wow! That’s . . . specific.
Me: Ya, I really made it my own.
Sad Woman: Well I’m from a big-time acting academy where we have young actors come audition for us and if we like them we get them big Hollywood agents!
Me: Wow, you’re like a junk email come to life!
Sad Woman: Seriously! It’s legit! I have a card and everything!
She pulled out a business card for a company called Juan Casablancas. It was laminated and everything. It even had some nice clip art next to her name. This wasn’t some homemade shit. This was AT LEAST made at Kinko’s. I instantly trusted her.
Sad Woman: Come to the audition tomorrow. I’ll tell everyone you’re coming. And bring that star quality!
As she walked away I had an inkling of “Oh shit, she’s going to rape and murder me,” but I also had an inkling that “Hey! That’s YO mama!” could finally become a reality. So I took my chances and walked into the nearest teenybopper store and found the most Disney Channel outfit I could find!
The next day I pulled up to a shady building somewhere in Orange County. It was two hours from Hollywood and also housed a divorce paralegal office and a Planned Parenthood, so I should have known that this wasn’t going to be my ticket to fame. I got out of my car and checked my reflection in the window.
Emo hair swoop greased down to my forehead: check
Unflattering vest with decorative shredded trim: check
Jeans so skinny you could see the outline of my unimpressive, flaccid grower: check
Endless amounts of sadness and desperation in my eyes: double check
As I entered the elevator that smelled like abortion, I looked around at my fellow desperate wannabe stars, mostly terrified-looking kids with their parents. One girl told her dad she felt like she was going to throw up and her dad told her to swallow it. As I watched a twelve-year-old girl vomit in her mouth and then swallow it, I started to second-guess whether or not I should be there. The elevator finally opened and in front of me I saw a big lobby covered in movie posters and pictures of famous people. There was a flat-screen showing Beyoncé’s world tour and there were dishes filled with candy everywhere. None of that hard butterscotch shit. We’re talking Reese’s and mini Twix. I didn’t even know they MADE mini Twix. All my apprehensions were gone, and I was ready for this Hollywood life.
We were all escorted to the sitting area, which looked like a mini movie theater. There was a stage and a big screen playing clips of That’s So Raven and Lizzie McGuire. I started mingling with the others and realized that something was fishy.
Me: So, how did you guys get invited to this?
Vomit Girl: A lady told me I should be on TV. She also said I was prettier than Hannah Montana.
Note: the girl had a lazy eye and some kind of skin disease that made her look slightly reptilian.
Me: Really? Wow. That’s . . . nice.
Vomit Girl: Ya. I don’t want to be an actor but my dad said I need to do it because he has a lot of legal bills.
Vomit Girl’s Dad: Car accident. Killed a guy. His fault. You know how it goes.
Me: Totally.
Obviously this wasn’t a room full of talented undiscovered stars. It was a room full of sad, desperate people who were borderline suicidal. I saw a mom eating her own hair. She actually ripped out a strand from her head, rolled it around her fingers till it formed a ball, and ate it. A loud feedback sound rang through the speakers and scared the shit out of everyone. It was the sad-looking turtleneck woman I had met at the mall. She was holding on to the microphone doing her best Ryan Seacrest impression.
Sad Woman: Ladies and gentlemen, who’s ready to find the next superstar!
Everyone cheered. Except Vomit Girl. She had vomit in her mouth.
Sad Woman: Great! Well, let’s get started! Here’s how it’s going to go. Everyone here is going to come up onstage one by one and read a short commercial off that cue card! After me and the judges see all your auditions we will decide who is ready for part two of the competition!
So it started. One by one we would go up onstage and perform the worst-written commercial ever and then sit back in our seats and wait for our fate to be determined. I was up last. I got up onstage and read that cue card like a champion.
Me: I don’t know about you but I love food. It’s my favorite thing! But who has the time to make it? Not me! That’s why I bought the Food Maker. It makes food! Buy one today!
I even took an invisible bite of a sandwich and moaned a little.
Vomit Girl’s Dad: Damn, he’s good.
After I got offstage the turtleneck woman went up to the mic and started calling people’s names. She called about ten out of the thirty people who were there. My name was one of the lucky ten. The other twenty people left in tears, and I sat awaiting part two of this challenge.
Sad Woman: Shane, let’s start with you. Come back to the office with me. I want you to meet someone.
I fixed my hair, checked my breath, picked my ass and smelled it, and was on my way. As I walked into one of the many offices down the hallway I met a small man named Allan. He was flamboyant and loudly dressed. He even had a mug in his left hand that said: “I’m bringing SASSY back.” I instantly trusted him.
Allan: So, you are the Sean I’ve been hearing so much about.
Me: Actually my name is Shane.
Allan: I know. I was testing you to see if you would correct me. And you did. You failed.
Me: Oh. Sorry.
Allan: Don’t be sorry. Be a welcome mat. Let people walk all over you. Feel the pain of Hollywood and then once you’ve had enough you can start to walk all over them! Make them bleed and feel sorry for EVERYTHING THEY EVER DID TO YOU.
Me: Are we still talking about me?
Allan: Sorry, sometimes my passion gets the better of me. I’ve also had about eight cups of coffee and three muscle relaxers, so I’m all jazzed up. Let’s get back to YOU.
Me: Well, I want to be an actor.
Allan: Get out of my office.
Me: Huh?
Allan: Get the fuck out! NOW! How dare you come into MY place of work and tell me that you WANT something!
Me: Is this the muscle relaxers talking or . . .
Allan: Don’t tell me you WANT to be an actor. Tell me you ARE an actor. Don’t WANT! BE!
Me: Ooooooh. Wow, you really should get that printed on a mug.
Allan: I already did. I sell them on Etsy. Signed.
Me: So, you think I could make it?
Allan: Baby, with me on your side, I can make you the next Mitchel Musso.
Note: Mitchel Musso was a thing in 2007. I know most of you have no idea who that is but trust me, he was a thing.
Allan: All you have to do is sign up for this set of classes and when we think you’re ready we will set up a meeting for you with a big Hollywood agent.
Me: Great! Sign me up!
Allan: That’s the spirit! It will be three thousand dollars, and please make it out to “cash.”
Me: WHAT?!
Allan: Hey, it pays to be famous. And trust me, kid, you got FAME in your future. If you were a mug, you would have FAME written all over you.
I know what you’re thinking: “It’s a scam.” Why would anyone pay $3,000 to take classes from a dude who sells mugs on Etsy? Because desperation makes people do crazy things.
I went home and told my mom about the entire experience and even though deep down in her heart she probably knew it was a scam, she wanted me to fulfill my dream so badly that it didn’t matter. We were pretty poor at the time so she had to max out
every credit card she could find. I think we even had to get my grandmother to chip in. All I could think about was getting rich and famous and getting my family out of the hellhole we were living in. My parents divorced when I was nine and they both filed for bankruptcy, so since then it had been a daily struggle to make ends meet. That vomit girl and I weren’t so different after all. We just wanted out of our current situation. I wanted to be on TV and be a star, and she wanted her dad not to go to prison for manslaughter.
The next week I went in for my first class. I looked around at my fellow students and I noticed a lot of them were from the group of twenty who were told to leave after the audition. I asked one of them why they were there and they said, “Oh, they called me later and said that I was actually in the top ten but they didn’t want to tell me till later to toughen up my skin.” That’s the moment I knew all of this bullshit was a fraud. The posters on the walls, the Beyoncé tour playing on a flat-screen, the good candy. It was all a cover-up for some scam where con artists sucker desperate parents into paying thousands of dollars for bullshit classes. And I fell for it. Hard.
A tall, model-looking woman walked out in front of the class and introduced herself as the teacher for the day. Her name was Neve and she looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine. I was yet again sucked back into the scam and eating up every word.
Neve: Hello, class. I’m going to teach you how to walk like a model today. Who here knows how to walk?
All the students laughed. Although this would have been SUPER awkward if anyone was in a wheelchair.
Neve: Good. Stand up and let’s see what you got.
So the rest of the students (who were all under the age of twelve) and I started walking back and forth across the room while Neve judged us like horses. She was yelling things like “Straighten your back! Stop smiling! Suck in that ass!” I’m not sure how one can “suck in that ass,” but you better believe I tried my hardest. After we did our walk she lined us up and started critiquing our “looks.” She got to me and let me have it. She told me that my teeth were too yellow. My arms were too white. And the thing that really stung?
