Thursday, January 30, 2014

They call me ‘Hairy WEARwithal’

Even though my hide prefers to hide in my hovel, once in a blue moon my spouse expects me to shake off and run a scum-sponge over my sag-sack before she’ll be seen with me in a fully lit room. As a not too bright troglodyte I try to comply as best as I can, but good grooming is not my strong un-rumpled suit. Anyway proper ablutions to my grill, gills, and undercarriage (of which I’m not fond), requires a full roll of quarters at the self-help car wash and usually at least one intrusive round with the de-greasing wand. 

Since I am thrifty, invariably worn-out grooming tools don’t always work as well as they should or worse, fail in mid-makeover leaving both halves of my speckless Jekyll and dirty Hyde to fight it out in public.  My razor in particular is literally a pain in the grain as it buzzes along happily UNTIL it runs into actual face-fiber, prickles, n’ quills. Yeah I’m a flexy-face-fleshed grizzled geezer so my mug-stubble dodges deftly like an NBA star to avoid abrasion, but I thought at least one of those THREE big rotary razor heads might actually be able to cut my tiny ONE on occasion.

It’s not that it just takes some strong voodoo to make me sparkle, but all that stuff to do the job has to be able to resist my autoimmune system to make my bone-bag pleasingly pink, stink, and kink-free. Can I help it if my birth-sharpened vampire incisors shred floss just as fast as they strip fleeing chickens and ribs from an all you can eat buffet? Is it really my fault that the Jello-hardened keratin in my digits dulls dog-paw clippers so much that I have resorted to just cleaving off every other fingernail, and only the toe-jammed tootsies on red-letter days.

Don’t get me wrong I’m not all that distressed about my sloppy state of dress, or those social expectations which rest with people pleasers and wide-eyed tidy types who are whisker-less. Oh sure I squeal about leaving my porky pen at times and wish I was a leaner, cleaner pretty prized pig instead of dried-up disheveled dust-deviled balut of a coot. But I figure if my wife didn’t crave my half-baked bacon-laced brain as it IS and wished me malice, then she would have married some hairless Latin rat named Alopecia Universalis.