Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Rip My Face Off. Please.

A short time ago, the wife looked at me and asked what I thought about a beard.  I told her that it probably wouldn't look too good on her at this time.

After we got that straightened out, she explained that she thought it would look good on me and, equally important, would work well with my intense dislike of shaving.  I'm one of those guys who has baby smooth, highly sensitive skin.  It's irritable, like me, making shaving a real task.

So I went with it.  I knew that, sooner or later, I'd started the Dreaded Itch.  The Itch of Death<tm>.  A solid week in, I did not itch.  But I knew it was imminent.

A few days later it hit.  And when I say hit, I mean I wanted to shred my own skin and scratch my face with a concrete block.  My wife, ever helpful, suggested a number of skin care products, the best of which stopped the Itch of Death<tm> for up to five whole minutes.  I even tried hair conditioner in the shower, to no avail.

Then I did what all red-blooded citizens do - I went online.  I located a number of sites with helpful and largely not-so-helpful suggestions.  `Man up and deal with it for the magnificence of a beard' was often repeated and the least helpful of the bunch by far.    What do you mean it only lasts a week?

Shortly thereafter, I tried conditioner again and it worked.  Sort of.  I continue to monitor the situation because if I have to deal with this much longer, I might as well shave.  Meanwhile I'm getting all sorts of comments about the new, rugged, outdoorsy lefty.  Yes, that's me, the new, rugged, outdoorsy lefty, from the Great Indoors.

My dad said he didn't dislike it, which is odd, given that he's not fond of double negatives.  Mom liked it too (because she has to) and my boss took about two weeks to figure it out (and I sit right next to him).  It's ok, he has other things on his mind (and let's be honest, I don't need his comments to make my life complete).

So I have a beard.  And a communique from the Big Boss, sent to everyone via email.  Unfortunately I am unable to discern its meaning.  After asking around a bit, it would seem I am not the only one who cannot decipher the missive.  It is written in thirty point type across seven pages, with each paragraph taking approximately its own page.

Most people would say I'm not stupid, so it kinda smarts that I don't have the smarts to decode the Boss' email.  Our local scholars ascertained that all of the words are current English and have decent sentence structure.  On the whole it appears to be in English that anyone could understand, only no one can.  This led to rampant joking about the Big Boss having a taste for cannabis.

For the sake of science (and sociology), a coworker is going to do an experiment.  At her husband's next social gathering, where much cannabis will no doubt be consumed, she is going to print out the email and see if any of the Muddled Masses are able to understand or translate.  This should tell us, for better or worse, the alleged state of the Big Boss.

If the experiment proves positive, either the Big Boss will have to compose while straight or get a medical marijuana waiver for the entire corporation so we can understand his writing.

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