I’m really bad at shaving.
For some reason, I’ve never really seemed to be able to shave properly. Either I cut myself or I miss a spot, or I’ll avoid both of those pratfalls while still experiencing horrible pain. It isn’t pleasant, and for that reason I generally only shave once or twice a week and display my stubble as a sign of virility.
Last weekend after I shaved it looked like I had just gotten done making out with a mountain cat. There were cuts all over my chin, and I was bleeding everywhere. I felt cheated, however, as sucking face with a mountain cat would probably have been more enjoyable than simply taking a shaving razor and cutting myself open. Granted, the cat’s whiskers might have tickled a bit, and there likely wouldn’t have been much of an emotional involvement, but it still would be pretty awesome.
At any rate, as I was sopping up the crimson blood that now covered my sink and bathroom floor, I pledged to myself that I would shave no more. Instead, I will grow a thick, filthy beard. I will proudly walk with my chin up to better display the tangled bush that hides my face. My beard will be home to several field mice who were orphaned in a mining accident; I will nurse them back to health as they lay nestled beneath my chin. Then, to complete my makeover, I will change my name to The Duke and begin wearing a top hat and monacle. I will tip my hat to passing ladies and politely offer the time of day to anybody who asks. People will complement me on my nappy facial hair and I will flip a two-bit piece to them with a wink and a smile.
Yes, it’s good being The Duke. Just ask my old friends Dan Haggerty and Uncle Jesse.