A few days ago, I discovered people have been using digital filters to enhance their online appearance and dating marketability. This is pure deception, as some of these filters are capable of structural alteration, moving facial bones around like some kind of tikkity-tok plastic surgeon.
Online filters remind me of something that happened decades ago, during my first tour as an assistant superintendent. We were in an inflationary economic cycle and it was fiscally necessary to have a roommate in order to afford food and air. One evening, my roomie--I'll call him Goliath--somehow brought home an exceptionally glamorous cheerleader for a pro basketball team. The next morning at 0430, in a dark hallway, I encountered the cheerleader while I was slipping out to go wake up the golf course.
She was sneaking out of Goliath's room when she passed through a beam of light from a partially opened curtain, giving me a momentary glimpse of her face. It did not appear to be the same person from the previous night. She was more like that woman who lived in a gingerbread house, deep in a forest, surviving on little children.
There was a sudden scream, a shocking, piercing, high-pitched shriek, the kind that makes babies cry, dogs howl, and grown men flee in panic into the dark of night. I didn't stop screaming until I was safe in my VW. I felt guilty for leaving Goliath alone with her, but I reasoned he was probably already dead, drained of blood and missing key parts that had been turned into gingerbread. Besides, I had to make sure the greens were mowed, cups changed . . . you know the drill. So I screeched tires out of the parking lot and headed for the safety of the course.
Later, Goliath explained what had happened: During the night, her cheerleader face had cracked open and when Goliath saw what lurked beneath, he fainted. Apparently her foundation had been applied too thickly, in order to withstand the TV lights. Her procedure for applying the foundation involved her friends holding her by the ankles and dipping her into a vat of makeup, before using a heat gun to harden the mask. Then, some kind of skin-tone icing was smeared on with a mason's trowel and whatever facial features the situation required was painted on.
. . . modern digital filters can transform an elderly Russian grandmother--or some guy from Portland--into a beautiful cheerleader onscreen
It was a terrible shock for Goliath, but fairly tame when compared to a modern online blind date, whereupon one's date appears minus the digital filter that had played a part in securing the meeting. (The modern online date requires using the tried and true spycraft technique known as "standing off", where the potential victim watches from a safe distance before risking the in-person encounter.)
Because modern digital filters can transform an elderly Russian grandmother--or some guy from Portland--into a beautiful cheerleader onscreen, extreme caution is required in these situations.
Filters, when used properly, are great, but when used in a deceptive manner, filters are evil. Since these filters are not possible without screens, especially the one in your hand right now, screens are equally guilty.
I know of a GCS who used a filtered photo of his golf course to obtain a better job. He submitted an application containing a photo of his work, albeit a doodied-up version that resembled an airbrushed centerfold from the 70s. Fortunately for him, there was no site visit by the prospective employer. That could have turned into one of those uncomfortable scenes like the one I recently witnessed: A prospective suitor, lured into a blind dinner engagement, sensed something wrong and fled, yelling "Foul! Foul!" while running for the parking lot. Pursued by what appeared to be a rhinoceros in a short skirt, things went bad when his keyless door lock refused him entry.
This travesty is only possible because of screens. That's why we have re-released today's film, "Forest Therapy", an in-depth analysis of digital screens and their hypnotic abilities. For those of you who already took this class, we offer a Rockbottum Bonus: Be the first to detect the secret therapy for screen addiction revealed at the end of the film, and win an autographed copy of "The Greens of Wrath".