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?

Look at what's happened to me; I can't believe it myself.

True story: When I was a farmboy, being a boy on a farm, my family's physician was Dr. Carmody. I don't recall ever seeing him with a beard, but I'm pretty sure he did have a mustache. That is neither here nor there. In fact, I only mention Dr. Carmody to establish that my medical needs were tended to by an actual physician whose medical practice was solely concerned with human beings and not with farm animals.

There were a great many farm animals around when I was a farmboy, being a boy on a farm, else it wouldn't have been so much a farm as a glorified garden. There were cows, pigs, sheep, dogs, cats, ducks, rabbits, and a pony. I've heard there were also bees and perhaps even chinchillas. From time to time, a farm animal would need medical attention, and my parents employed the services of at least two veterinarians, one of whom was Dr. Pepper.

Yes, Dr. Pepper.

I don't remember much about Dr. Pepper—it was a long time ago—but I don't think he had a beard, either. In fact, I seem to recall that he looked a bit like William Katt. You know, The Greatest American Hero. That guy. I don't ever recall Dr. Pepper wearing an alien supersuit while delivering a calf, but I suppose it's possible that he had it on under his veterinarian clothes. What I do remember is shoulder-length rubber (or perhaps plastic) gloves. Because that's how long a glove needs to be sometimes.

Anyway, I hated Dr. Pepper when I was a farmboy.

Not the veterinarian, the soft drink.

Fast-forward umpteen years. I've just gotten off the phone with my mother. The other vet, she tells me, was Dr. Aho. (Not Dr. Sripaipan, who was another doctor of humans, I believe.) My memories of Dr. Pepper, I learned, were actually of Dr. Aho. It was Dr. Aho—not Dr. Pepper—who had blond curly hair and bore a passing resemblance to a certain bumbling superhero. Dr. Pepper was more like a (and these are my mother's actual words) "real person."

Anyway, I like Dr. Pepper now.

Not the veterinarian, the soft drink.

Sit down in our Thinking Chair and think, think, thi-i-ink.

I know what you're thinking.

Okay, I don't.

I have no idea what you're thinking.

It'd be nice if you were thinking, Hey, I should donate some money to help breast cancer research. That would be nice.

Or even, I sure do like boobs. I should donate money so that some day no boob will be threatened by cancer.

I'd settle for, All this money I've got isn't going to spend itself, I might as well give it to one of these bearded clowns.

But you're probably thinking about Survivor, aren't you. Are they still voting people off the island on that show? I think they should do Survivor: ISS and getting voted off would mean dying in the vacuum of space. On the other hand: free Tang.

Anyway, you should donate. Each donation comes with an immunity token. I guarantee that if you donate you will not die in the vacuum of space. At least until after the PayPal transaction is processed.

Incredible Hulk pajamas!

You know what would make this better? A money bin. I'm talking Scrooge McDuck style, folks; diving board and all. We beard-growers could cavort around like happy dolphins, flipping and splashing, expressing ourselves with whistles and clicks. Dolphins are mammals, you know, and therefore entirely capable of growing beards; it's simple biology!

Of course, some money to put in said bin would help, too. Without money, we can only flop around at the bottom of the bin, longing to kick a football through a hoop or balance a ball on our nose as we dance across the surface de l'argent on our mighty tails, always hoping to be rewarded with a tasty fish treat. That dolorous crooning you hear? Those forlorn clicks and tweets? That is the lament of the bearded dolphin. In our sorrowful heartsong, we mourn for our lost innocence, never to be reclaimed, we grieve for the joy we once knew, and we despair for the boobs. And also for the lack of tasty fish treats. But mostly for the boobs.

I'm totally not watching "Friends."

Where I'm from, there are seven days in a week, which probably means we're a week into this thing.

Sure would be nice to get some donations.

I'm just saying.

It's lonely at the bottom.

There's only one thing that I know how to do well...

My beard is at that stage where light hurts it.

You guys all know what I'm talking about, right?

Right?

Guys?

Vulture-Cat, Vulture-Cat, waiting for you to die so she can feast on your flesh and then cough up a hairball made of you. Or at least your hair.

I tried to get Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to join in the beard-growing activities but (1) I don't posses a razor sized appropriately for a cat's face and (2) that might have led to some rather immature innuendo, and we'll have none of that. All entendre shall be restricted to the singular form.

It's a little difficult to tell from the photo, but my beard is at the Sam Axe stage right now. If you don't know what that means, I'm afraid we'll never be able to relate to one another; please return when you've gotten some damn culture.

Enhance...enhance...enhance...enhance...

Someone's going to have get busy building that fence before thirty-three man-apes come storming out of the hills and steal all the porkpie hats. We haven't got a mansion and we didn't build on an elephant graveyard; we just needed a place to kick up our feet and watch the radishes ripen. Olives certainly won't grow here!

Every time we take out an ad for candle waxers, the man from the post office stands on the corner and stares at the back of the toolshed. No one makes eye contact, and that's all right; his humming helps the baby sleep. Now it's time, and if you know what's good for you there will be no arguing. Spin around, spin around, spin around and say it like you mean it. We'll wait here until you get back with your new prescription.