Get it? He kicked my ass. Get it? Get it?
Then I went to Tom's house to watch the game, and the Blackhawks won. It was hardly an ass-kicking, though; the game went into overtime thanks to an imminently reasonable but luckily timed call, and then the Blackhawks scored in sudden death overtime.
And that was the sudden death of my beard.
I think it was starting to look almost good.
At times, it could be jovial.
From below, it could be almost intimidating.
But a deal is a deal. We grow them. We lose. We shave them.
I probably could have escaped with a goatee.
The fu manchu is kind-of awesome, but it's not socially acceptable for a guy without a Harley.
...or for a guy who occasionally does want to be taken seriously.
Mustaches are fine. ...for police officers and firemen. My dad can pull one off. I can't.
Boo!
Okay, all shaved. My wife, Paige, prefers me clean-shaven. She says it makes me look younger, which is true. I look like a young version of Gollum from The Lord of the Rings. But that can't really be an improvement, can it?
Bye bye, beard. You'll be missed.
The Red Wings better make it into the playoffs next year.
