So the smear campaign against beards is upon us. I keep coming across these articles like this one that makes the claim, (without reference to an actual study,) that beards contain more germs and bacteria than a toilet, that is before your uncle Andy comes over for his morning coffee and bowel expulsion.
The most glaring mistake in this smear campaign is that they don’t make a note of where all that poop and bacteria would go if you didn’t have a beard. That’s right ladies and ladies with adams apples. Right into your mouth.
This shortsightedness leads me to speculate about the origin of this smear campaign. Like some beardless sap who had his dream girl whisked away from him at the hands of a much more handsome and healthy man again and again only to lash out because his face is stuck in prepubescence and now the only thing he can do is literally eat, breath, and talk shit.
After months in Gitmo Bay I was finally able to hustle my was out using only a toothpick and some dental floss, (Those guards have some really bad teeth,) only to find myself in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. My time away was certainly my darkest hour, but during that time I was imprisoned with a stoic of the highest order. He taught me to rely only on myself and do what is right no matter what. He also taught me to drink my own piss and to use my beard as a filter. At the time I found some of his teachings odd but his survival techniques will serve me well in this new dystopia. I hope to see you all soon, that is if its not to laaaaaaarrrrggg……….
Brocember blog day 25: Twas early morning Christmas and all through the land not a creature was peeping not even a quack because they all knew Jay and Silent Bob had come to strike back. They struck on the homeless they struck on the Jews. They struck on the church bathrooms and even the pews. They struck on old Krampus who was a little laconic to be beaten so bad by Bluntman and Chronic. They struck on the dishes the struck on the walls they struck on the fishes and that old Cockknokkers Balls. They struck on St. Nick who should have been dead, asleep in his lovely carbonite bed.They struck on the Ewoks who squealed with glee. The struck on The Hut named Java and then me. I said now whoa wait. You shouldn’t strike me. I brought you into this story so isn’t it weird that you would strike me and my christmas beard. So they struck down the chimney the struck down the door they struck down Kim Il Sung’s mother, that whore. They struck down a lunch lady for making them eat kung pao and then Obama and Harper Netanyahu Putin and Mao. They struck all the kids houses in one single flight then from the afar you could hear Snoochie Bootches to all and to all a good night.
Well its finally here. A whole year of beard. 52 weeks of follicle fantasy. 12 months of twisted whiskers. All culminating to this one point in time. Yesterday a friend of mine complimented me on my beard and said he was quite jealous. Which made my year, for him and his brother are known for growing quite luscious beards. Of course all that pride came to an end while my brother came to visit this afternoon.
I had asked my brother to join me on this occasion to commemorate the cultivation of these fine spectacles.
As you can see my beard still pales in comparison to his massive face muff, (and he just shaved yesterday.)
So now what? Do I face dejection of in-superiority and shave my face in shame or do I embrace what I have grown and build off of it? Before I answer that question I have to do a little retrospection. A beard in review so to speak.
I started this beard as a parody to Movember and that has opened the door for the Ausies to steal my month and rename it Decembeard, where they are raising money for bowel cancer, (fitting actually.) It has been an interesting year non-the-less, I’ve been through mountains of madness that almost ended my life as I know it, watched hipsters hijack a fashion trend that pushed beards to the brink of blasphemy, I dealt with my own inner demons as well as the worlds outer demons and now on the brink of another Brocember I ask do I shave my beard? How could I when I know Santa is still out there torturing and corrupting young elves. So I say Nay. This Brocember the Beard must go on!
Well it’s that time of year where every homophobic, A team watching douche bag hides in their closet watching gay porn and grows a set of balls on their face. I’m referring to that month of the year when every guy grows a pedophile mustache in support of testicular cancer. I think this is the feminists favorite month. I of course oppose this facial fallacy for no good reason other than to promote my own cause. What is your cause you may ask?
About 11 months ago I decided growing just a piddly mustache is not enough. To show your true manhood one must grow a beard. So I started to think of bearded figures that needed attention and came right to old St. Nick. Saint indeed, ha. My intention was to grow a beard for all of December (Brocember) to bring awareness to Santa’s horrific ring of elvish slave labour. But it became more than that.
I decided to grow my beard for an entire year. I tracked Satan Clause through the off season and found him making back door deals with Chinese business men. Taking orders from underground elf trafficking rings and even found him lurking among hooded figures at some kind of ritualistic seance involving a caribou, an egg beater and a 30 pound tub of KY jelly. I was appalled to find these truths about Santa. I knew he was anything but jolly when I met him last year but these shady business deals and sick rituals have got my whiskers in a knot. I’m setting out to expose the Santa Clause Lie and I won’t be doing it on my own this year. No this year we have a new hope.
Mark, Carl and I will be teaming up using the force to force feed candy canes so far up the fat mans ass that his farts will smell like peppermint for a month. So if you oppose elvish slave labour and greasy pedophile mustaches I encourage you to start your beard now so we can sweep through the streets like an army of bearded brothers (and sister) exposing the lies of Christmas past and freeing the elves of the future from the sadistic clutches of this man made myth.
Forgive me if my content is slightly dated, I’m trying to distance myself from the hipsters. A lot has gone on since my last blog post. I crawled back from dark side to find myself back in the mountains of coastal BC. The madness was strong but the mountain air has cleansed me of shear insanity.
I learned how to survive out here when supplies are low and wifi is shoddy. Thanks to incredibeard I’ll never be without dishes again.
I also learned that you can’t live on happiness alone. (That sentence is much funnier if read with a French accent.) No matter how much joy you bring others some times happiness is not enough (*snicker, sorry I’ve been away from my lady for some time now.) I’m trying to give props to the late great Robin Williams. If there was ever a better beard in any of his oft shaven rolls, Jumanji takes the cake. Though even the fan favorite Genie sports a quaint gotee. His bout with depression hidden by an array of fake smiles and a bowl full of ramen noodles, I mean laughs, left us all shocked. But his hidden illness enriched our lives and filled our hearts. And sometimes a growing heart is more important than growing a beard.