So it's Tuesday and as usual, nothing dramatic or exciting has happened to me. I did not take a whole bottle of Viagra in order to have sex with a hot brunette Australian girl named Kylie, I did not get hit by an Ex-Hooters Girl who was excited over Ohio State beating the stink out of Michigan, and I did not get a call from the Governor of Tennessee to tell me that he has decided to uphold the rule of law and submit a bill relating to criminalizing the use of the Taser for sexual torture or sexual assault in the state of Tennessee.
What I did do, as it happens, was to wear totally mismatched clothes to work today. Apparently there is a good reason that I like to pick out my clothes the night before work, rather than waiting until the early morning when the sun sits low in the sky, colors all run together, and I am barely more conscious or alert than a drug addict in a meth lab. My Wife does not grasp this, though, and harassed me last night as I was beginning to pick out those clothes. So I never finished. The result was that this morning when I arrived at work I noticed that women were looking at me funny, and not in a good way. The men, of course, didn't even notice, nor did they care. Either way, I drove home and changed because, being a genius, I already have the odds of GQ fashion stacked against me and can't afford to make matters worse by wearing colors that clearly don't go together at all.
There is absolutely no reason for the photos I've included here, other than that they gave me a big old boner and so I decided to share the wealth with you all. The photos, that is, not the boner. I mean, not that I wouldn't share the boner. It's just that most of you are so far away, especially those of you who are abusing the Viagra or who have a friend who is abusing it, and not a single one of you is particularly close by. Even the hot woman, who asked me to regrow the shaggy beard, which I had just long enough to take a single photo (that now appears over on Facebook), is 5 hours away. And most aggravating of all is the fact that right after I grew the damned thing, she disappeared into thin air. I haven't heard a word since Thursday.
What's up with that?
I don't think My Wife has even noticed all this new hair on my face. Or if she has, she hasn't mentioned it. Is that odd or is it just me? Then again, she's been battling an attack of poison oak that our lovely cat has apparently brought in to her. It's an annual gift, like FTD or something, and this cat seems to bring it to her with great love and affection on a regular basis. It's kind of a problem, though, because My Wife is deathly allergic to it and has a very bad reaction. Having a wife covered in poison oak makes sex virtually impossible, much like late night TV. Although there are times when even late night TV doesn't stop me. But it does make for some odd fantasies at that critical moment, if you know what I mean. You don't get to choose who is on the screen and it definitely does affect the old concentration. One time I found myself thinking about Adrian Monk's blonde assistant, Natalie, mostly because I was banging my face up against the TV screen and she was on there the entire time. A few weeks later she was clearly pregnant and I worried that it might be mine.
I'm not a big fan of wearing facial hair. I especially don't like doing it because it is such a cliche for a man in my field. It's like a geek's way of saying, "oh fuck it, I'm a total loser anyway so why bother." I'm going to have to find someone nearby, someone I trust, someone female, someone hot, to ask if this is the good thing that the woman who asked for it says it is, or if it just makes me look lazy and pathetic.
Anyway, I once had a college professor who was my advisor for a short time, who had this mangy beard and mustache, and he was a smelly, nasty loser of a man. I don't ever want to be him.
And then there was the geek in the strip club the night of my bachelor party who would wave a dollar bill in front of a girl like it was made of gold, then look her body up and down, as she waited for him to put it in her G-string, as if she were a new car or an animal at the zoo, all the while not smiling or looking her in the eye even once, before finally placing it in her panties with no more enthusiasm than a man paying a library fine. He was clearly a dickhead and wanted all the girls to know it, but that image of him and his beard making even the strippers want to jump down and beat his ass has stuck with me all these years. I don't want to be like him, either.
In short, this beard is on shaky ground. Unless some hot woman says she likes it real hard, it won't be here long.
That's about it, really. I'm working on reports that should have been completed a month ago, it's cold in my office, but warm outside, and my clothes match much better now than they did early this morning. Yay me!
| You *MIGHT* Survive an Animal Attack! | |
 | If you were attacked by a Killer Moth, aka Mothra ... you would win, but would also need to go to the hospital. |
| 'Would You Survive an Animal Attack?' at QuizGalaxy.com | |
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