Monday, December 13, 2004


Late last week, after a few email exchanges regarding upcoming family Christmas plans, the Wooly Mammoth did a foolish thing. He challenged me to a mustache competition.

The nerve. And not just that.

The gall.

All who know me know that there is very little chance I will lose. How could I? I'm a veritable fountain of testosterone and virility. Mannishness oozes from my pores. I am the ancient myth embodying the echoes and whispers of the power of the phallus; the purity of my potency is made manifest on the ridge above my upper lip.

Tread in the forest of my mustache hair if you must, Wooly Mammoth, but do not be alarmed if you become lost in its thickness; its density of foliage. Its growth knows no limits.

Check mate.


King Koopa said...

Normally, I champion my ability to always get in the 'last laugh' as the old saying goes. But, since I'll be greeting you upon your arrival into the Hoosier state, I'll cherish my opportunity to get the first laugh, as it were. For those that don't know the AM, close your eyes and think: John Waters...only somehow, skinnier.

Mathis said...

Only somehow, sexier.

King Koopa said... know, in that Steve Buscemi sort of way...

Anonymous said...

Think about it. My name is WOOLY. When I let my handlebars unfurl you know it's going to be a wild ride.