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.
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.