If the truth hurts, one can imagine how hurtful it is for this sweat-stained doppelganger of a certain sawed-off celebrity Scientologist to look in the mirror and witness the unmistakeable resemblance with his own two eyes knowing he'll never benefit from it. The shame he must feel at the grocer's, readying to pay for his tub of ice cream and chocolatine sauce when he inadvertently eyeballs the magazine rack at the same time the register lass does and they both see it: a toothsome, tuxedoed version of the poor buggerer. Crikey, he must have angered the gods of L. Ron Hubbard’s maniacal religion to find himself in such a cursed spot in life — tending to the grease traps and latrines — while his oft-married marquee lookalike beds church approved waifs, dances on table tops, races sports cars and hurls his chiseled self off skyscrapers onto cushiony piles of money. The station house extends its sympathies as these are surely difficult truths few good men could handle.
