Girls are Cool

Girls are Cool…Here’s My Fifth Reason

In all of my self-deprecation and self-loathing, I gotta be real with you. I sometimes really wish that I was bald from head to toe. Like Powder. Or another white rapper Eminem. Being as foresty as I am pretty much ruins my chances at modeling and becoming a rapper. I got the kinda fur that’s more common in readers and comic book collectors. Glad I found a lovely woman who would become my lovely wife because I’m closer to Teen Wolf than I am anything that’s remotely human.

Maybe it’s not that bad. I could be this guy.

The reality of my body hair problem is that I’m less the pubic quality body hair and more wavy like Richard Branson or an bison. My body hair doesn’t curl tightly when slightly moistened and it looks awesome when it’s getting blow dried. Recently tried wakeboarding out on the lake with Superhuman Gary Paul, Mediumhuman Mason and Justmysteez Dale Barker and realized how closely I resembled an orangutan except that I never made it to my feet.

Let’s face it, guys. Girls are cool because they don’t have body hair like we do. It’s really kinda nasty. In fact, go ahead and throw in facial hair with it. I only grow sideburns and beards because I’m too damn lazy to do anything else and it doesn’t really bother me. I try to make it sound like I’m doing it for the pennant race, my training or in protest of all of the innocent whales that were killed last year in the Pacific Ocean, but the truth is that I’m lazy. Lazy as all hell and I don’t want to tend to it. Instead, I’d rather just craft it into something creative and interesting to look at. Girls don’t have to worry about that. They think it’s weird when they have a little fuzz on their earlobe or upper lip. I’ve been battling that freaking caterpillar on my top lip since 8th grade. You ain’t got no ‘stache, girl. My chops learned Brazilian Jiujitsu and have already defended themselves in the roughest part of Houston against fifteen men with machetes. And, they’ll be back in the Yellow by morning, always. Your facial hair ain’t nothing to worry about.

You don’t have to worry about your daughter getting hairy knuckles like Robin Williams or dreading her shoulder hair like Peter Tosh. You don’t have to worry about her showing up at prom with an Adolph Hitler thumbprint ‘stache as a joke. Because she can’t even fantasize about a mustache. It ain’t happening.

That’s why I like the thought of a girl. There’s a lot of things that mommy’ll teach her about her body and why it’s doing what it’s doing as I sit awkwardly in the other room searching for a ballgame frantically so that it doesn’t seem like I was listening in. At least I don’t have to had that kid a razor and say, “Here’s what you gotta do, hon” only to hear her snap back by saying, “You never did when you were younger! Why do I?!” She’d have a point.

I’ve probably been scraping my ugly mug with a rusty razor for about half a year now and I don’t even know the difference because I’ve never known any better. I don’t converse with my razor, but three times every two weeks. Ask my co-workers, wife, fellow basses in the choir. I hate shaving. I’m trying my best as the due date approaches to stay clean. Get it tanned in alright so that I look natural in photos. My Gommy noticed in photos from this last weekend’s shower and she wrote me an email that read:

Dear J3 – Just a quick word to tell you HOW HANDSOME my g randson looked at the shower-so clean shaven.  I had not seen you look like that for years-my you were handsome. Much Love, Gommy

Yeah, love my Gommy too.

Ya’ll be good. It’s Friday. Jam on some Funkadelic today. We gonna blow this weekend up, son.

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