Every Man, Woman, And Child Should Grow A Beard At Least Once In Their Lifetime

Beards are natural. They invigorate. They teach. Hieroglyphics found near the Fertile Crescent suggest that an ancient human’s beard was regarded as a minor deity, and being in its presence could elevate one to what the Hindus would later go on to call Samadhi; the Buddhists, Nirvana; the Japanese, Bushido. The first guy to cut off his beard was branded as a heretic, smeared with animal lard, and sent into the jungle to first be licked, and then ripped apart by ravenous hordes of savage beasts, as was tradition at the time.

Everyone had beards back then. I look around today, and see so much face-skin it makes me sick. If I’ve learned anything the past few years, it is this—every time a new generation emerges, the old guard will talk ceaselessly, if you don’t tell them to shut up, about how things were better in their day. If we follow codger logic, then naturally the best time of all was when the first humans roamed—bearded, beautiful, and gloriously flocculent.

You literally have to do nothing to raise a beard. So go ahead, give it a whirl.

A Letter To The Perverted Deadbeat Whose Credit Card Got Declined At The Dollar Store

Dear guy:

You ought to be ashamed. The ridiculous scene you caused last Thursday at the Dollar Store tells me you need serious help. And I’m not even talking monetary help. Go see one of them head doctors, because you sir, are a pervert. All of us in line saw it—the deer-in-the-headlights look when the cashier swiped your card and was all like “Oooh haaaaay-uuul no! Don’t be bringin’ that trash in here!” You even resorted to lies. “But I just put money in that account today.” Of course you did. That’s why your card didn’t work. Because the account had money in it. For a moment, I even thought of picking up the tab for your two items, until I saw what they were, exposing you as the dastardly mountebank that you are.

What kind of two-bit rapscallion buys baby food and diapers for himself? At some vulnerable point in your childhood, the ease of eating liquified spinach and the comfort of wearing a diaper must have imprinted themselves in some twisted sexual way on your brain, leaving the adult version of you as a walking case study of depravity.

You were probably filling your diaper with creamed corn at that very moment, when the realization hit that you wouldn’t be getting your fix.

Your childish ways were even more evident as I saw you sitting out in the parking lot, crying, looking up at the sky and saying “How is my baby going to eat?” Like anyone would have a kid with someone who still wears diapers, for Pete’s sake. Textbook case of an addict—the heroin isn’t for me, officer, it’s for my baby. How low can you stoop? We’re all supposed to believe you have a kid waiting at home? Of course, and all four of my girlfriends want me to get a penis reduction, but you don’t see me crying at the hospital when the doctors tell me it just isn’t a reasonable procedure.

If I ever see you near that Dollar Store again I will kick you in your bankrupt crotch and then shave your head.

For real,

Me

Oh, This? It’s Just A Marmot-Brand Sleeping Bag, And It’s Worth More Than Some Parts Of Your House

I hate poor people. And it’s not because they smell bad and are really, really ugly.

The thing I hate about poor people is the fact that they will never once experience the decadent texture of a Marmot sleeping bag. If even for a moment they could just brush their non-money-handling sausage fingers along the outer polyester pelt, the gravity of that experience alone would provide them with the burning drive to garner enough wealth to become a Marmot owner. But alas, Marmot owners are smart enough to never plop their sack down where poor people will be within reach. It’s like they always say: Marmot people get Marmot-ier, and the poor get less Marmot-ier.

Is it wrong that I envelop myself in the luxury of a sleep sack that can keep me alive at temperatures as low as 40°F, while there are people out there barely scraping along using bags made of rat skins glued together with the sticky stuff that comes out of rats when you skin them? Absolutely not. I earned this Marmot bag. By having a birthday so I could get it as a gift from my parents. Enjoy your rat-bag, you poor sack of crap that nobody loves enough to buy you nice things! I’ll just be over here, wrapped in the rich, robust lovin’ that the Marmot exudes, praying that one day, maybe, poor people will see the error of their ways and become rich enough to afford Marmot merchandise.