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So there I was, walking pretty Debra to her car from a party by the shore. We had chatted throughout the shindig, she laughed at my jokes, I thought she was smart and lovely, and then She Said It.

“Do you know you look like Dick Cheney?”

It wasn’t the first time that I had heard that comparison. I tried to turn it into one of those things that Debra and I had in common. Not that she looked like Dick Cheney but that we both found him detestable.

But it was too late. Few women fantasize about doing the sweet ‘n’ sweaty with the man who told Senator Patrick Leahy on the floor of the Senate to go eff himself. Few women dream about long, lazy afternoons with a public servant so arrogant that he responded to a report that two-thirds of the country disagreed with him by growling, “So?” Few women long to caress the aging, scowling pol who in his wheelchair at President Obama’s inauguration looked exactly like the evil Mr. Potter from It’s a Wonderful Life.

And I’m stuck with his face.

Maybe I should make the best of it and apply to agencies that book look-alikes for parties. I could slick my hair back and pretend to shotgun people in the face — but I think I’d feel pretty cheap the next day. I could always go in for face-changing cosmetic surgery, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let that crabapple-souled war criminal push me under the knife.

I’m sorry that I didn’t have the eyes that drew pretty Debra’s gaze, the lips that attracted her kisses, or the smile that illuminated her heart. But it all worked out; today, I have a terrific and beautiful wife who doesn’t think that I resemble that old Dick at all.

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