Guh. Blug. Grah.

I am not feeling terribly photogenic today, either, thanks to a sore throat and lingering sinus headache. But it seems that a certain someone feels it necessary to deduct "manly points" if I don't post a photo every day. So blame Jeff Greiner. I know I do.

On the breast cancer research front, it's nice to see that we're closing in on halfway to our goal but I think we're going to need to kick it up a notch if we want to see $5,000 in donations by the end of the month. I've just told my beard to get its act together; maybe that will work.

I'm not feeling photogenic just now, nor pithy, so you'll have to settle for this exchange between my five-year-old son, Kyle, and myself, which took place earlier this evening.

ME: What is the word that means more than one tooth?

KYLE: Many.

ME: Okay, listen. The word for more than one mouse is mice, right?

KYLE: Right.

ME: So, you lost one tooth and now you have nineteen...

KYLE: ...left.

How do you spell QWERTY?

The thing about being at the bottom is that you've nowhere to go but up. The implication being that one's only option is to rise, which is patently untrue. One could just go nowhere, as I have been demonstrating for some time now. From a certain point of view, I'm the foundation upon which the entire structure is built. If I move now, will the whole thing come tumbling down around my ears? I'm willing to chance it if you are. For the boobs. Always for the boobs.

My eyes, I believe them not.

How is it possible that A dam Johnson's beard has generated six times more in donation dollars than my own? Is it six times fuller? I don't think so! Six times longer? Certainly not! Six times beardier? I highly doubt it! Six times manlier? I don't—hey, shut up; it is not!

It's the genuine Australian hat, isn't it? Okay, I'll admit it: he wears hats well. I do not. My noggin is far too large and unwieldy; any hat I perch atop it looks like a thimble sitting on a cantaloupe.

Speaking of melons, regardless of my unfortunately-proportioned cranium, let's not forget that all donations (even the ones you make out of pity) go to fund breast cancer research, so regardless of my little brother's sartorial splendor it would be perfectly all right to toss a few bucks my way. It's not like he gets to use the money to buy more hats.

Elevated Action

This is it: the halfway point. The point of...halfwayness. Not to be confused with halfassedness. Today also marks the Dawn of the Itching Face. I had to trim my nails to ensure that I do not scratch my cheeks to bloody ribbons. If you were hoping for a good dose of schadenfreude this month, it begins now. I am officially suffering for your amusement. If it means you'll toss a few shekels in my donation cup, I'm glad to continue suffering through the end of the month.

This image was created by UK artist Jack Bedford. I don't think Mr. Bedford had our little endeavor in mind at the time, but I suspect that this is how many of our participants feel about their own beards by the end of the month.

Alone in the Dark

We're approaching the midpoint in our journey and have received just over one-quarter of the donations necessary to reach our $5,000 goal, but I'm not worried. Why? Because I took my pills, that's why. Everything is just fine when I take my pills. We'll make it. Or we won't. But we probably will. You'll help. Or you won't. But you probably will. Right? You probably will. Yeah. Good. Good. Good. Good pills.

Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, the end.

I've had some manner of sinus and/or throat malady since late September. There was a brief respite after an initial round of antibiotics early in October, and a second round in late October got rid of something that may or may not have been strep (or, more likely, bronchitis) but left a low-grade crud that continues to linger. I'm told this is largely due to having a five-year-old boy bringing home all sorts of fun and exciting new germs from kindergarten on a daily basis.

Anyway, if I look excited to be here, that's why.

I'm more than happy to test the curative properties of beard donations. Right now I have a strong feeling I'm in the control group.

I hate the control group.

Parental Advisory: Implicit Lyrics

I'm seeing a lot of beard-related quotes this month, so I thought I'd provide one of my own:

"If you don't [CENSORED] my [CENSORED] beard, I'm going to [CENSORED]."

I don't remember who said that; I think it might have been George Carlin.

Kilroy?

Look, don't jump to any conclusions. The beard is probably still there. Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's even there and not there simultaneously. Like Schroeder's cat. Schroeder, by the way, did not have a beard. Perhaps because he hadn't yet gone through puberty. Played a mean piano, though. Didn't much care when Snoopy danced on his piano. Now that I think of it, I don't ever remember seeing Schroeder's cat. That's a bit odd, don't you think? All that fuss made over Schroeder's cat, but you never see it. But I guess that's kind of the point, right?