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.

Not even a little original.

So, hey, it's Thursday. It's the third of November. We're 10% of the way through the month and we've hit 10% of our $5,000 goal. That's pretty good, right?

WRONG! The statistics I just made up say that we should have hit 20% of our goal today if we want to have a hairball's chance in hack of hitting our goal by the end of the month! Thankfully, another statistic I just fabricated says that if we push hard and get a big donation spike on the first Friday of the month we've got an eleventy-seven percenfamil chance of gaining enough momentum-tum-tum-tum-tums to turn the tide and buck the trend and spit into the windex and win the brass marble! This is practically science, people! Let's do this thing!

Boobs.

I'll return you to your regularly-scheduled beard progress photo posts later today, but right now I wanted to give a shout out to The New Guys. I'm talking to you, Frederick Hurley, and you, Brian, and you, other Brian (Engard), and you, Duane "Valthonis" Sibilly, and you, Beard A. Nonymous (if that's your real name), and you, Chooch Schubert, and you, too, Drew.

Whatever the storied history of your chins may be, whether you've ever sported (or even attempted to sport) a beard in the past, whether you joined willingly or were dragged here kicking and screaming by a friend, thank you for participating, for cajoling your friends and relatives into donating (you're doing that, right?), and for plastering your chins—follically-gifted or otherwise—on these here Internets for the world to see.

I'm not qualified (nor authorized) to speak for the boobs of the world, but I'm sure they're glad you're here, too.

CHEESE!

I realize that losing a tooth has nothing to do with beards or boobs, but it's pretty big news here at the International House of Johnson. Don't ask me what the frog has to do with anything; I have no idea.

There's some visible whiskerage in today's photo, and some of it is even on my chin.

I'm also molting. I should have taken that advice about the moisturizer.

Maybe if you donate to my beard these posts will become more coherent. It's worth a shot.

No puppy dogs were harmed in the making of this face.

I'm not sad because Chris Miller already has a hundred bucks in donations; that makes me happy.

I'm not sad because my beardless face is already lost in an ocean of the recently-debearded; I'm thrilled that we've got so many fine, upstanding (and let's not forget manly) men bringing their chins to our annual fundraiser. More chins means more money, right?

I'm not sad because Jeffrey got more points in Jeff's arbitrary ranking system than I did because of name bias; I'm practically ecstatic that Jeff has found a nom compagnon.

Why am I sad?

If you really loved me you wouldn't have to ask.

"Slander is spoken. In print, it's libel."

Apparently only one guy in the history of ever has worn a sweater-vest. While making the trick-or-treating rounds with my son (who was cleverly disguised as Spider-Man) this evening, three people looked at me and saw not the editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle, but a former Ohio State football coach.

"Hey, Jim Tressel," they all exclaimed.

Not, "Spider-Man is a hero, you pompous jerk!"

"Hey, Jim Tressel!"

I just don't understand people.

The mustache comes off in about two hours.

The sweater-vest stays on, perhaps until December.

Wait for it...

"Hey, that guy still has a beard!"

Yeah, I do. Because I'm not doing a full shave until 11:59pm. There will be no 24-hour head start for me; I will start November freshly-shaven, the scent of eucalyptus oil (don't get any ideas; it's a manly scent) still lingering as I set my Mach 3 aside and gaze upon my newly-ensmoothened chin in the mirror.

Then, and only then, with the growing begin. I can already feel my follicles flexing.

Sound off like you've got a...beard!

Mr. Miller has chimed in; he's ready to de-beard and re-beard.

My hat is, as ever, in the ring as well. Where are the rest of our beards?