Smile

I think I should have lived my life before 1826. That's the year the first photograph was taken, and the only thing I hate worse than Brussell sprouts is having my picture taken.

Of course, it was all my mother’s fault. I don’t know why I was the only one of her three offspring born with extremely crooked teeth. And because my old man was an alcoholic, we couldn’t afford braces for my teeth because we barely had enough money for distilled spirits. So whenever anyone would try to take a photograph of me, I’d either cover my face with a pillow cushion or steal the film and expose it to the light. That’s why a photo of me smiling is more rare than an albino alligator, an honest politician or a happy cow buyer.

You can imagine how terrible it’s been for me to hide my face in a techno-world where cameras hang from every lamp post, potted palms could be taking your mug shot and everyone carries a smart phone capable of exposing my lousy dentition to the world. It doesn’t help that I’m superstitious and believe in the old bromide that says in any photograph of three people the person in the middle will ALWAYS die first.

My fear of photos is only going to get worse. Farmers are urged to film their corn growing 24/7 to be more “transparent,” and ranchers are urged to appear on Facebook and YouTube to show what swell people we all are. I don’t know about you, but I live in constant fear of being seen picking my nose in public or of failing to remember to shut off the camera prior to a “bio-break.”

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