My fellow Americans, thank you once again for joining me on this glorious Monday. Just as the indecisive air signals January’s dying breaths, so does our spirit and sense of purpose violently assaulting the great enemy, doubt, into a state of comatose vegetation. No matter how dark the coming storm or stacked the odds against us are, we will persevere. Still, my friends, for such struggles to be overcome we must be willing to make sacrifices.
As a younger man, I engaged in the mighty craft of the lumberjack. Enforcing my will on titanic timber towers gave me the kind of rush that one can only get from copious amounts of hard drugs or the noble art of jacking. Getting a firm grip on a nice, solid piece of wood occupied most of my time in those days. Instead of going out with my friends to chuck eggs at passing cats (or whatever kids do), I was jacking. It was a steady paying gig. Physically exhilarating. And it taught me a lot about myself, but there were drawbacks, too. Not only were my hands routinely as battered and bruised as the wood I so desperately battled, but I missed out on developing any semblance of social skills. Still, it got me to where I am today and for that, the sacrifices were worth it.
This weekend was yet another roller coaster of success and sacrifice. Having finally mastered the art of blacking out by 8:30 and having a consistent source of sex, life seemed to be on the fast track to utter domination, USA style. As Saturday rolled into Sunday, Kathy Lee Gaper seemingly passed out next to me, I let out a sigh of satisfaction. Unfortunately, the last thing a man wants to do around a woman is express any form of physical, mental, or spiritual health and happiness. It leads only to boring conversations and hackneyed ultimatums. Sensing the positive aura I was exuding, Kathy struck.
“I think you should shave your mustache.”
Being the reasonable, educated, honest person I am, I responded with what sounded to me like a polite dismissal.
“Are you out of your mind? That’s literally the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m not shaving my mustache.”
It went about as well as expected.
The next ten minutes were spent in a battle that, in a booze fueled stupor, seemed to be for my very soul. I’m a heavily pro-mustache guy. People know that about me. It personifies my pride and exhibits sheer sexual charisma. To her, beaten down by society’s anti-stache agenda, it represented killing people at rest stops and jerking off on their corpses. What we couldn’t see, however, was that it was just a mustache.
“Shave it or I’m not fucking you anymore.”
Twenty minutes later, I had a fresh knick in my upper lip and a warm mouth wrapped around lil’ Karl. In the immortal words of Dave Chappelle’s character Thurgood Jenkins, “I love (mustache). LOVE IT! Probably always will. But not as much as I love pussy.” At the time, all was well.
Sadly, when I awoke Sunday morning, with a pounding head and no memory of the atrocity committed for a little tang, things were not all well. The prior night’s whiskey still clung to my breath and all I wanted was a shower and two gallons of water. As I prepared for my morning cleansing, my stomach suddenly rebelled in an attempt to remove the poison I’d so willingly ingested. Flooding the tub with trace amounts of what looked like peanuts and smelled, dear Lord how it smelled of death and vengeance. Never had I been attacked by such a ghastly scent. I looked up, tears streaming from my splotchy face, and made eye contact with myself in the mirror. Gone, my pride. Gone my manhood. Gone the one barrier between myself and such aromas that melt concrete and end wars.
My fellow Americans, these are dark times. Remain ever vigilant when you find yourself at a crossroads and, if you’re forced to choose between two things of varying importance, choose wisely. God bless you, and god bless these United States. Together, we will persevere..