Damn, I Look Good

by Brice Lancer

I woke up early this morning so I could have my routine an egg white omelette, freshly squeezed oj and low - fat organic yogurt. But before I even made it into a pair of designer jeans, I was floored when I caught a glimpse of myself in my full length mirror. Its not often that one gets caught off-guard by their taught physique and iceberg baby blues. I must have spent at least two hours staring in the mirror before I reached the conclusion: Damn, I Look Good.

People stop me on the street, bi-daily, to make comments on the sculpture that is my body. They ask me, Brice, what's it like just being so damn good looking? In one word I reply; Completely Awesome. Now don't get me wrong. Whatever anyone says, a chiseled bod that put's Michelangelo's David to shame and handsomely rugged looks that could make Burt Reynolds cry don't come easy. You can't just pop a pill and expect to look like Brice. Brice takes hard work, dedication, and three generations of hot people engaging in sexual intercourse.

I also realized that I looked damn good when I was at the upscale martini bar sipping a cherry vodka and diet. I made eye contact with a hot skinata (pronounced skin-yata; See also, 'firey skinata', 'extra spicy skinata', 'hot tamale') and approached her to announce the presence of Brice. She was all about me; so much so that she suggested that I engage in intercourse with myself. I've entertained that quandary before, and trust me baby, if Brice could do that, Brice would have been there and done Brice. The evening ended abruptly when she got so excited that she bolted out of the club. I imagine she went home to clear her calendar for the next two weeks, as to leave ample time for Brice-flection on the life changing evening she had spent with me. But not before she cooled me down with her appletini. I knew my bad boy moves were burning up the dance floor, but I had no idea that I had brought it so hard that a babe-ette would sacrifice her ten dollar beverage for my personal comfort. Thanks sex kitten. You sacrificed one for the team. And by team, I mean Brice.

But Enough about her. Back to what everyone wants to talk about: Me. There have been substantial rumors circling Brice Lancer as of late. A bit of Brice-Mania, if you will. People have said everything from, to 'Brice is signing with Calvin Klein', to 'Brice is throwing the biggest model party in New York' to 'Brice is debating putting on pants' to 'Brice slept with me and stole my purse'. Let me assure you, none of these rumors are true. Except for possibly the last one, which is highly unsubstantiated, and my lawyer has asked me not to discuss. Brice is not, as of late, signing with Calvin Klein, throwing a modeling party, or putting on pants. However, if someone were to propose such an arrangement, Brice would not be whole-heartedly opposed. As for now, Brice will just continue to be the stud-muffin that everyone has come to worship and adore.
Alas, all this unsubstantiated rumor talk has again gotten me off topic yet again. What were we discussing? And can someone tell me WHO that dropdead gorgeous guy is across the room in his underwear?! OH, HAHA, thats just me in the mirror. Damn, I look good.