“Popularity contest,” as in “This isn’t going to win me any popularity contests, but…” You know what’s not popular? Popularity contests. I’ve never heard of one. What you are really saying is, “I’m about to be a jackass, and I just want you to know that I’m aware I’m being a jackass.” Just own your jackassery all ready. You can’t soften the blow of being a jackass.
As loosely and flexibly as your stress tolerance will bear.
A tour bus sticker of mating moose
led a tourist to say, "What the deuce?"
"I just cannot deal
with a tour bestial,
and the memories that it might induce."
A streetwalker from Old Town Frankfurt
had a proclivity for getting hurt.
'Twasn't violent clientele.
She tripped and she fell
where heel met cobble met tight skirt.
Many times. In many ways. Not always good. One time in a packed conference room for a mandatory graduate seminar, I realized I’d forgot to wear deodorant on an Indian summer day in Georgia, and — thus — smelled stronger than I’d thought. (Maybe, I’d put on the deodorant, but it — being as exhausted as I — hadn’t the will to stay in the fight.) Of course, when I first caught a whiff, my internal monologue was like, “Oh man, who skipped the shower!” But after a couple pit sniffs made as surreptitiously as I could manage, there was no lying to myself further. (No lying about the smell, and no lying to myself that pretending to wipe my lip on my collar was really any less gross than just owning the sniffing my own pit.) I — on that occasion — was the stinky kid.
A breath of air.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 