The 6 Steps From Full Beard to Clean Shave

There are a few reasons to go from a full beard to a clean shave. Maybe you have a big job interview, or maybe your significant other finds it repulsive and you’re more interested in eventually having sex again than you're interesting in winning this battle of facial hair.
 
But hey, it took a long time to grow that puppy out! It would be a crime to just shave it all off in one swoop. In fact, it goes in several phases.

1.    FULL BEARD

 
I thought it looked good. Like a rugged lumberjack! This beard made me feel like I could build things out of wood and change my own oil! Oh well, here it goes…

Why are we all okay with the “Baby It’s Cold Outside” Lyrics?

Why are we all okay with the “Baby It’s Cold Outside” Lyrics?

My wife has had Christmas music playing through the house all month, and I can’t just sit here and pretend like the dude in “Baby It’s Cold Outside” isn’t a complete creep. Here are some of the most alarming lyrics, with my comments:
 
My mother will start to worry (beautiful what's your hurry?)
My father will be pacing the floor (listen to the fireplace roar)

This woman still lives at home. Is she even 18?

The neighbors might think (baby, it's bad out there)
Say what's in this drink? (no cabs to be had out there)

OKAY BILL COSBY.

Hi, I'm Robbie. And I'm an Addict.

I’ve heard that step one of the road to recovery is to be honest with yourself, so here it goes:
 
I, like so many others, am addicted to my iPhone.
 
Way too often, I catch myself scrolling through the same Facebook, Twitter and Instagram feeds I’ve already gone through just a few minutes before — scouring posts of friends out to dinner, or at a fun-looking bar, or at a beach with their feet showing at the bottom of the picture.
 
Then I’ll look over, see my wife sitting next to me doing the same thing and think, “oh, we haven’t spoken in 20 minutes. Kinda forgot you were there, actually.”

Dear Buff Guy With Orange Tank Top and Matching Orange Shorts,

Dear Buff Guy With Orange Tank Top and Matching Orange Shorts,

You probably don’t remember me, but we ran into each other at the Whole Foods salad bar recently. Well, we didn’t exactly run into each other – I saw your perfectly coordinated orange outfit, turned to my fiancé and said, “Holy shit I’ll be right back, I have to take a picture of that fuckin’ guy over there.”

I’m not a huge fan of sneaking pictures of people in public (yes I am), but I think I took your picture because I knew I needed time to process it all – more time than the situation would have allowed me to do.

We ran into each other around dinner time. I had just finished work for the day, and you had probably just gotten out of your job as a trapeze artist.

Dear Old Guy With Glorious Beer Belly,

I’m a little nervous writing this letter, as I’m pretty sure you are my hero.

Other people that saw you on the beach that day might have made fun of you. They might have said, “check it out, that guy’s shirt got stuck on his man-tits!” Or, “He looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger from Junior!” Even, “I bet his old man nutbag is gonna pop out of those tiny Euro shorts any second!”

But not me. I was jealous.

See, you get life. You don’t wonder for a single second what other people are going to think – your outfit more than proves that. Peer pressure isn’t in your vocabulary. The amount of fucks you give is absolutely zero. Is that not the most freeing feeling there is? The kind of freedom that this country was founded on?

I exist in a constant state of peer pressure. Are these jeans cool enough? Tight enough? But not too tight, right? I can’t even wear an outfit (she’s even got me calling it an outfit) that my fiancé isn’t 100% happy with, because I don’t like the disapproving look I’ll be getting all night unless I change into a shirt that goes better with the pants I have on (which she also picked out).  

Do you know how happy it would make me to throw on a backwards hat (and not give a shit about what logo it had on it), a pair of tiny, weird shorts because they were the first thing I pulled out of my drawer, and top it off by rolling up my red t-shirt over my big, jolly gut simply because it was warm out and it felt better that way? I’d punch a stranger right in the mouth – without apologizing – to feel that kind of pure, sweet freedom and peace of mind.

And your beer belly. That glorious, glorious beer belly. 99% of the world is self-conscious, and would think of that bad boy as something they should try to hide. Not you, sir. Not you. You’ve pulled your shirt up to let it out, ready to give that gut a tan. Is there anything that screams pure confidence more than a tan beer belly?

That baby just oozes life experience. Inside that ball of fat is a story – decades of stories. What were the 1950s like, gut? Tell me, I know the answer is in there.

Thanks for Everything,

Robbie