Neither of these dudes is me. Including The Dude.
I just Googled myself. For only the second time, ever. (The first time was after someone said they had Googled me, and I was offended and slightly alarmed, because I had obviously slept right through it, and it had certainly NOT been consensual, until it was explained to me that's not what "Googling" actually means, and then I was all, like, "Sorry, Uncle Bud. My misunderstanding.") I don't even like to look at myself in a mirror, let alone through the Matrix. But my self-esteem has been hovering around "Normal," so I thought I'd better do something quick to knock it down a few pegs, lest I get all full of myself and start to believe I'm as popular as THIS GUY:
Brantley Gilbert. Who is either a popular country music singer, or an extra in every episode of Sons of Anarchy. And who thinks shoulder spikes are awesome.
And so here's what happens when you Google "Larry Brantley." I shall now clear up forever and all time which of these images are actually me, and which are not:
Yes. This is me. Why I'm dressed like I have an actual job is a mystery.
This is also me, looking pensive. (And yes, I had to look that word up. Don't judge me.)
Wrong, Google. Not me.
Close enough!
Um, no. I'm flattered that you think I'm a beautiful black woman, Google. But the beautiful black woman is probably crying. Right now.
What the shit? Are you punking me, Google?
Now you're just being mean. Fuck you, Google.
Oh. Um, yes. This actually IS a photo of me. Not my best pic, since I haven't shaved, and I'm wearing a hat. And I'm in Victorian London. But that's definitely me.
Also yes. Definitely me.
So there you have it. Evidently Google does know who I am, while also simultaneously believing that I'm an aging sheriff, a beautiful black-woman, a mullet-headed, beer swilling trucker, a ballerina, and the illegitimate love-child of Hugh Jackman and Robert Downey Jr.
Happy Friday, y'all. If you're going to Google yourself, please use protection.
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