Congratulations Swimsuit Assessor!

Many people wear shirts that say “Swimsuit Inspector” in big block letters or, if they’re less specific, “female body inspector.” These people are almost all douchebags, and should be universally reviled. But did you know that these are actually real occupations filled by real people, and that you’re actually one of them?

Your day will begin with a quick jaunt down to Falmouth beach, where you’ll approach a number of young women with your clip board, ticking off boxes as merited. Then you’ll ask them questions about religion, politics, humor and popular culture. Their answers will be mostly unacceptable, but that’s the norm for your day.

Then you’ll be flown by super secret supersonic jet to a college campus in the Midwest. In the midst of downtown St. Paul young women will be splayed out on a lawn, covered by little more than swimsuits. You’ll apply your exam to each of them in turn. Eventually you’ll come upon a young woman who is reading a massive textbook on civil rights and liberties in her swimsuit. She’ll be wearing light carbon glasses frames and staring intently at the words, so intently she won’t notice when your gaze lingers a bit longer than is necessarily professional over here ass.

“Hello miss,” you’ll begin your quiz, at which point she’ll look up and acknowledge your presence.

She’ll hop up to her feet and extend her hand, pulling her i-pod buds out of her ears.

“Oh hi!” she’ll beam at you. “I didn’t notice you there. How’s it going?”

You won’t know how to respond. Her smile, the question, her energy… It’ll all be so new to you.

“I’ve got questions,” you’ll stammer at her, and her smile won’t skip a beat.

She’ll keep it up as she answers each of your questions. At one point she’ll unselfconsciously tuck her i-pod into her bra, placing the device in one cup and the balled up headphones in the other.

“That looks uncomfortable,” you’ll say, and she’ll shrug.

“Gotta put ‘em to use, right?”

After twenty five minutes you’ll have the survey completed and you’ll simply stand there, staring at her, as you detach her carbon copy from your clipboard.

“Congratulations, madam,” you’ll mumble towards your feet. “You’re the perfect woman.”

She’ll laugh, then look at the form, where you’ll have actually scored her responses to every single question. She’ll look at you as if she’s offended for a moment, until she reaches the part of the form detailing her stance on social issues, her capacity for human compassion and her easygoing nature and approach to sex.

Then she’ll smile, scribble something down at the bottom of the paper, and hand it back to you.

“Thanks,” she’ll say. “But I’ve got to study.”

Then she’ll hunker down on the lawn again, the grass pressing into her perfect thighs. She’ll sit facing you, her shoulders hunched over so that you’re given a spectacular view of her cleavage. After a few seconds of staring at her chest you’ll look up and see her face, smiling at you. You’ll turn away, red in the face, and look down at the paper. Her phone number will be scribbled down there, along with her name.

You’ll mumble it to yourself as you stumble towards your rental car, searching for excuses to stay in town another night.

Congratulations Swimsuit Assessor!