Illustration by Bob AulI'm a college student supporting myself by doing some modeling work here and there. You're a trade-show promoter. I had the unfortunate displeasure of modeling wedding gowns at your show on a recent Sunday. It was really bad enough that you repeatedly walked into the models' changing room—quickly glancing around like a rat. I counted 12 trips into the changing room in 15 minutes. The other girls apparently know that you do this all the time. Their nickname for you is “Mayor McSleaze.” If your peeping wasn't bad enough, your offer to “get together” with me “in private” to “talk about my modeling career” was creepy enough to make my skin crawl. Almost as creepy as when I met your wife and your 8-year-old daughter. Your wife has that “last to know,” dimwitted look. No thanks, Mayor McSleaze, I won't model this coming Sunday or any other Sunday for you. You're sick—get help!
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