I was off on a cruise last week with dear, old Ron Jeremy, for it is dreadfully gloomy in New York right now.  Apart from a spot of bad fish, it was a rollick.  So what have I missed?  Mary informs me that two of the dampest teens in existence have a philosophical point to make:  Hot girls have problems, too.  Casting these nasal-piped puffins aside (done!), I really have to disagree with the message here.  It is not in dispute that beautiful people have problems.  Heavy is the head that wears the crown!

Truly, the attractive among us are the *only* ones who have any substantial problems.  We worry about diseases we might get, the ones that poors have.  We worry that our shag carpet is just the wrong shade of ecru, and it might be bringing us down.  We are frightfully concerned about whether anyone truly loves us, or whether it is all just an illusion brought on by our celestial allure.  To be so exceptional is to be very lonely.  Everyone else is stuck in a tractor beam on their miserable chins and gaping nostrils in the mirror, and never actually get around to any real trouble. Like Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, ugly people are at the very bottom, and do not have the sense to be plagued with hunger and loneliness.  How I envy the simplicity of their self loathing, which revolves right around the facial area.  Ugly people are delighted to have cancer because at least they will slim down and not look so sweaty.  It is a condition you and I could not possibly comprehend, mired as we are in hob-knobbing, and misting our undereyes with diamond cream.  The PM of France knows exactly what we like.

So please do not tell us about the problems of the excessively handsome.  We are too well acquainted.  Ugly people do not have any problems.  Apart from being ugly, of course.