I just wrote a long post singing the advantages of not being able to grow a beard. And did I twist myself into a fine rhetorical tizzy. Let this spare post stand as a monument to the failure of words hairs.
I preserve for you, for it is not mine, a single passage from the treatise:
"Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the gravedigger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. [He listens.] But habit is a great deadener."
And this:
"We celebrate the ginger germination of our (sometimes ginger) pubic tendrils."
Peace, siblings.
nah, you're just pissed that you can't grow one. you'd look like such a baller with a handlebar 'stache. but we'll never know.
ReplyDeleteare you going somewhere?
ReplyDelete