It’s David here, guest blogger for this evening. Whilst Carrie catches up on some quality time with her vacuum cleaner this week (she actually just sits on the couch eating ice cream while her little one pushes the shark navigator around), we will be taking a break from the usual blog cast of Georgey Boy, B1, B2 & Little Miss Peppa Pig to talk about my Doppelgänger Dilemma. Don’t worry ladies, this will be a quick read before Bachie’s Woodfire sets your telly ablaze and melts your heart-cheese to perfection, burning broads and brain cells in his wake.
I will explain my dilemma in a minute but first – this word ‘Doppelgänger’. It just sounds repulsive, doesn’t it? Like some giant gruesome breed of German sausage dog. And if your doppelgänger looks anything like that…well, you’re in big trouble.
The literal translation of doppelgänger is ‘double goer’ (and sometimes even ‘evil twin’). Luckily for me my doppelgänger is the loveable and charming funny man Paul Rudd. Rudd is the star of numerous single serving pop-comedies that are the perfect antidote for mental exertion. My blood alcohol level steadily rises whenever I sit through one of these flicks, with beer my loyal liquid ally as we take a deep swig before being sucked into an intellectual vacuum.
Do you remember Rudd in Clueless, I Love You Man, Forgetting Sarah Marshall and of course as Phoebe’s husband Mike on Friends? Well I don’t but yeah, apparently the ladies find him quite a dish. Come to think of it, Carrie has never before allowed a guest blogger! She even helped me edit this, putting pictures in by stalking my Facebook page…she was getting a little carried away! And straight after tonight’s episode of The Bachelor is Cougartown…
Back on point though, being a dead ringer for Paul Rudd is not wishful thinking on my part. It has been a verified fact for a number of years, but recently there have been signs that people actually prefer to think of me as him.
A few years ago I had never even heard of Paul Rudd. But then some women with way too much romcom time not in their diaries started to squeal about it. It’s now at the point where his fame is on such an upward trajectory it’s becoming a little rudd-iculous for me. Here are a few examples to prove my point:
- Carrie changed my contact name in her iPhone to ‘Paul Rudd’ because Siri couldn’t find my real name.
- Female workmates who know my facial expressions like their own husbands/boyfriends.
- Customers from my workplace left positive feedback about my service solely due to my resemblance to Paul Rudd. One guy recently just said ‘Hey Ant Man’ casually as he walked into our store.
- Ant emojis being used to refer to me in text messages. You know you’re in trouble when your name has been reduced to a small insect (HOW GOOD WAS ANT MAN BY THE WAY! Marvel Universe has a new hero. Sequel already confirmed, P Ruddy killing it on the big screen).
- After seeing Antman and going to the bathroom, a guy at the trough saw me enter, then quickly looked up at me again startled despite the fact he was still midstream.
- My wife laughing in shock at the uncanny resemblance in Ant Man whilst I give her that look (*insert Paul Rudd facial Expression here).
- Catching up with an old friend after some years apart and his first comment to me after embracing was “Man you look like Paul Rudd”, followed by an awkward silence and reflex Rudd mannerisms to seal it (according to him).
- Comparative Photo Montage –> Ok there, photo evidence.. happy now?
In actual fact, my dilemma may be more of an identity crisis. Being told you look exactly like a celebrity is a strange situation – it seems like you’re kind of being given a compliment but you haven’t actually done anything to deserve or earn the praise so it’s got this confusing emptiness to it. Not only that but what if Paul Rudd tragically died from acute heart-throbbing? Would I just be Davey Deadwood, kindling at the base of Pauly’s box-office bonfire? The looks, the laughs and the lovability… would they still belong to me? Would my reflection still smile back at me in the mirror? Or would I see an empty Antman bodysuit lifelessly crumpled in a heap on the ground and hear ‘With great power comes great responsibility’ echoing in my ear…uhh that’s spiderman you moron, stick to rom-coms Ruddy.
There are some things we don’t have in common, like his salary, my curly hair and also my relative youthfulness (I think he is about twice my age, but geez he still looks good doesn’t he?).
I think the moral of the story is to just accept the good with the artificial sweetener. Yes I know, I’m complaining that everyone thinks I look exactly like a movie star. I should just stop overthinking it, take it on my ruddy chin and watch Bachie Wood play havoc with his barbie dolls.
At the end of the day I think the most important thing to remember is that it could be much worse. I could look like Kevin Rudd.