We’ve come a long way together, you and I.
If you’re here, you must be one of my six loyal blog readers, which means that you might remember the days
when we had a dog and Mama’s nom de blog was Wifey. Or, you might suffer from memory loss like me and have to look it up on the blog.
Some of you even know me outside of this blog/Facebook/twitter. You can confirm that my kids aren’t Photoshopped to be as beautiful as they are and that I am as over-the-top proud of them in person as I am online.
My question to you, then, is this:
If you know me so well, why don’t you want to embarrass me, make me work harder every day–you know, get back at me?
I mean, c’mon, you know that somewhere along the way I did something–maybe big, maybe small–that you weren’t too fond of, or that made you uncomfortable, or that made you throw a fire extinguisher at my head, but I ducked down at the last minute to pull up my white knee-high tube socks.
Here’s your chance. I’m handing it to you on a silver platter. It will only take a few seconds of your time and cost you a few bucks, and then you can say that you were the one–you were the one of six who finally settled your score with me. Or at least tipped the ledger balance a bit more into your favor.
That’s right: You can be the one who makes me shave my beard.
[I’m only $450 away from someone forcing me to do it. Be the one.]
Wha? That seems so lame.
Aah, but you’re forgetting that I hate to shave. That’s the only reason I’ve had a beard for the past 25+ years–not because it’s so comfortable to have face fur during a Southern summer down here in Dixie where I live.
And you’re forgetting the all too real potential for embarrassment. As I wrote previously:
Perhaps I have some horribly inadequate chin that slumps into my neck, making me appear like Beaker on the Muppet Show.
Adding to the embarrassment…you did see where I promised to post video of the shearing on my YouTube channel, right? Which means, thanks to cross-site syndication, that everyone I know, have known and might ever know will see it.
But, if forcing me to drag a cold, razor sharp, steel blade across my jugular and carotid every morning before my eyes are fully open and caffeine has steadied my jittering hand, and if embarrassing me before the world with a public shaving–that’s “public” with an “l,” get your mind out of the gutter–isn’t your doppio macchiato, then perhaps you’re the one out of the six who truly likes me.
In that case…
Do it for Mom
, who always wanted me to shave my beard, but didn’t live to see that day.
Do it for Dad
, who never lived to see me with a beard–but who probably wouldn’t have liked it either–and for whom I always ride.
Whatever your reason, do it now. I’ve never been closer to such great discomfort, embarrassment…the clock is ticking, I’m holding the blade in my hands, what are you waiting for?