Election Time
So The Bearded Man's quest for personal gratification has landed me in Hoboken. And, as many of you may know just from looking at the picture below, I've decided to run for Grand Snob of Hoboken. This is a lofty position, and I'm excited just to be eligible of such an elite and finneky position. To cast a vote, send a wax sealed envelope containing a letter detailing why I would make a good Grand Snob up your mother's ass. My platform is as follows.
Smiles From Hoboken- This is the program under which we banish all "Smiles From Hoboken." This program will be easy to roll out, as our Hoboken Residents, or Hobokenists, as I like to say, rarely ever smile as it is. (Nay, not even a smile from the Rotten Hearted Dick-Holes that walk around with their Smoking hot, undeserved girlfriends) In this way, we will have no trouble in maintaining that nothing pleases us, which is central to our shared desire to eraticate all types of Satisfaction, save Self-Satisfaction. As we all know, Self- Satisfaction is expressed in witty comments about money to poor people, not smiles.
Something Missing
As many of you may point out, something is missing from the above picture. That something is my beard. I think that it's pretty obvious what has happened to it. It's regressed back into my face for the summer months. This could be for one of three reasons. One- The heat. Two- the beard's natural inclination to tell me when it disapproves (Not a beard friendly town). Three- I had a nightmare where I got a job as a waiter in Hoboken, they made me shave my wonderful beard, (even though I had it when I was interviewed and hired) so I went home that night and shaved with no shaving cream, put my beard inbetween two peices of bread and ate it, bite by bite, while crying like a child.
I say let ye with bushiest beard cast the first stone. (Don and Russ may commence stoning.)