A few weeks ago I started thinking about what you would be like if you weren’t famous. I figured you’d just be a dude, living in his parent’s basement, chillin’ with his boys and and whistling at honeys, livin’ for the weekend. If you forget what I envisioned your life to be like, you can check out your Myspace page. I thought I had figured out the only kind of Rob I would never like- white gangsta Rob- but it turns out the thought of you as Hawaiian-Shirt Rob isn’t too appealing either.
When this picture came out of you in Italy, I immediately wrote The Quad and asked if they thought you were sporting Tommy-Bahama’s finest. I was worried, no, SCARED that you didn’t know that wearing this was WAY uncool. Turns out my fears were nullified, but it did get me thinking about a career path you might take if you weren’t famous.
You say “Aloha” to the ‘rents and board a plane to work as a bartender at a Caribbean resort.
Not one of those nice resorts either, but one of those $399 all-inclusive, 5 day spring break excursion places that promises never-ending, watered-down, fruity drinks, late night sweaty dancing with Jose, the “local” guy the resort hired to teach all the girls how to salsa (but who is really from Tampa, Florida and just learned how to do a thick Cuban accent from his Uncle Sergio when he was 11) and many options to catch a variety of STDs (for the willing.)
Unfortunately, all the bar-tending jobs were taken by the guys with big muscles (even as a famous guy your 6-pack is air-brushed on, so you’re sure to be packin’ a spare tire as a non-famous guy), but you’re able to find a gig as the ‘nacho-man’ who waits on the resort guests as they lounge by the pool, serving them the resort specialty “Caribbean Nachos” (which are tortilla chips drowned in processed, cheddar cheese from a machine) Of course one of the downsides of this wonderful position is that every time you walk by with a tray full of Caribbean Nachos, all the drunk frat guys sing, “Nacho, Nacho Man. I wanna be a Nacho Man” at the top of their lungs. But the drunk frat guys are easy to ignore when you’re able to see 18-22 year old girls in skimpy bikinis all day long.
Never mind that they don’t pay attention to you in your Hawaiian shirt with your spare tire occasionally protruding below the hem, you’ve learned some invaluable information about women. #1, they all pretend to be disgusted by the Caribbean Nachos but when their drunk frat boyfriend isn’t looking, they eat the entire plate themselves. #2, they all read the same book series around the pool- it has a black cover with an apple and is apparently about vampires. #3, their favorite book series was recently turned into a movie, and they all love the guy who plays the main vampire. You’ve seen him on the front of every magazine sitting on every lounge chair and don’t think he looks that special. In fact, you’re pretty sure you’d look at least half that good if you stopped eating the Caribbean Nachos for every meal, shaved, washed your hair and worked out for a few months. #4, they’re all extremely jealous of the girl who plays opposite the main vampire, with half wishing they would date in real life and the other half wanting to die at the thought of it. While you agree that she’s extremely attractive, you do think she could smile a little more. In fact, you’ve joked with your resort buddy, Jose (yes, the same fake “local” Cuban who dances the salsa late at night), saying, ‘All that hot sour-puss needs is a plate of Caribbean Nachos from the Nacho Man himself (that’s what she said).”
So, I know sometimes it sucks to be famous and you probably wish, quite often, that you weren’t, but I’m really glad you are. Cuz imagining you as Hawaiian Shirt Rob, with an ever-expanding middle section from the Caribbean Nachos you’ve come to love as the “Nacho Man” at the resort, just really doesn’t do it for me. Neither does imagining you as “Bahama-Breeze Hawaiian Shirt- Rob,” which I did the other night when I celebrated my birthday with friends at Bahama-Breeze. While I would have loved to have you bring me my coconut shrimp instead of the Hawaiian shirt wearing waiter we had (who, coincidentally, I am 99% sure was actually a Cuban named Jose), I’d rather you not quit your day job.
Mmm, processed cheese,
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