Charlie

I'm in love with my beard. Not because it looks like roadkill stapled to my face or maybe the drain clog you found in the sink last week, but because I won't look like this. That's right. I used to look like a loser. But in comparison, this beard I have makes me a winner. I now look like the all time high scoring finalist from Jeopardy who won so much money they renamed space after him.

Ever go to the pool during the summer, and when you run around that douche of a lifeguard blows his whistle at you? You hate that guy so much that whenever someone else is up there you don't care. Pol Pot could be rocking a sleeveless with Zinc on his nose and it would be an improvement. My face without a beard is that dick lifeguard. Charlie [if you don't know my beard's name, clearly you've never spoken to me] is the wedgie alternative to the wet willy.

But let me tell you the power that comes with a Charlie. Women want me. Allllll the time. Yup. I fight them off with two hands, a stick, and a moat built round my bedroom. Surrounding the moat is Chippendale's dancers, who will willing sacrifice themselves to sleep with the women trying to get me. The idea is to tire them out. The few dedicated that can get past my sissy slaps and stick hits are in for a three minute treat that they will remember for the rest of the time they're dressing.

Yeah, I get it. The beard looks like ass clown. But without it, I look like the above. And think about it, who would you rather dominating your every move? Me and Charlie or that sickly looking guy?

Reminders for class: I missed blogging.