Hey! It’s him. He’s back again.

Yes, it’s the ever popular, often insensitive, always offensive, perpetually insulting Dan O’Shea.

It’s been a week and now he’s back to sink his vocabularic (try saying that with a mouthful of jello) teeth into another completely innocent victim. Hmm. Now where could he find someone so obviously deserving of a few well-placed, scathing remarks?

Shhh. There he is. Right down there in that picture. Look at that pre-schooler’s grin. A dead ringer for Baby Huey. I wonder if he wears diapers, too.

And look at that receding hairline. Just twenty-one years old and he could already be the poster boy for New Generation Hair Loss Treatment.

It’s not just receding either. If the photographer took that picture from a bird’s-eye view, you’d be able to see that it’s thin all over. Boy, I bet he wishes he was an Indian.

And what’s wrong with the left side of his face? (Not your left, his left.) He’s got some kind of a twitch or something. Or maybe his entire face is just crooked.

What a loser.

Too bad that isn’t a full length photo either. He’s a big, big boy. (Dare I say ‘fat?’ Oh, dare, dare…) When he lies on the beach (Lie on the beach? He is the beach!) I bet land developers try to flatten him out and build condominiums on him.

And how about that town he comes from—Grayslake, Ill. The people there are so dumb, they think Gray’s Lake is one word.

Grayslake makes DeKalb look like Los Angeles. I’d say it’s a one horse town, but horses make a good enough living that they don’t have to live there.

If you’re a fugitive, don’t set foot near Grayslake because trying to be a needle in a haystack in that town is like being a porcupine in a packed elevator.

What a loser.

What? He’s an English major! Everybody knows English is the Bob Uecker of academics. He probably possesses only slightly more practical intelligence than the basic banana slug. No, I didn’t mean that as a knock on all English majors; only on that wasted photograph space up there.

Melon-headedness doesn’t run in his family, though. His little brother is at the University of Illinois majoring in the Nobel Prize and he uses his weekends to develop a cure for cancer.

What does that guy up there in the picture do on the weekends? He probably goes to McCabes and gets schnockered on three beers, and then goes to Hardee’s at two o’clock in the morning and passes out in their Kiddieland.

And the closest he’s come to developing a cure for cancer is being able to open the dryer, throw a Bounce sheet in and close it without stopping the clothes from flying around. Some genius, huh.

There. That should do it. The job is done for this week. I bet I’ve got him cowering in a corner somewhere. I called him a baby face, I said he was losing his hair, I insulted his hometown and his intelligence (or lack thereof) and I accused him of not being able to hold his liquor. And I haven’t even touched his wardrobe—yet.

It’s a good thing he has that one tiny, little, cobweb-covered, redeeming quality.

He knows how to take a joke.