Alopecia: A Fate Worse Than Death

       

       This is what I feel like doing to someone when they reference in any way the fact that I do not have a full head of hair. I'm all for being fucked with and usually enjoy it, but I don't understand why people think it's okay to joke about that. I feel like it would be the equivalent of laughing at a burn victim or someone with a hideous deformity, because when it comes right down to it I think of alopecia as just that, a hideous deformity, and there are times that I look at myself in the mirror and it's like I've been living a nightmare for the past ten years, and I mourn for the luscious luxuriant mane I used to have. And to anyone who may be laughing at me now: Would I laugh at you if you lost your genitals in a fire? Well, actually, I probably would now, asshole.

       I also like to lament the fact that in the short time I had all that hair I used it like a shit for brains, managing to get some of the worst haircuts of all time. In pictures it looks like I was taken to the same groomer that did our bichons, but the truth is that I went to a perfectly competent stylist and actually asked for my hair to be cut that way. What the fuck was I thinking? The answer is I wasn't. I was a stupid little bastard with a head full of dogshit, and I wasn't thinking at all. Here is some pretty powerful evidence of that.

       As you can see I used to have a really punchable face. I'm amazed that growing up it only got punched 3 or 4 times, and never hard enough to break the skin or even leave a mark really. But look at that hair. I can't believe how much of it I have on top, and I am just as incredulous about what's happening on the bottom, especially because I know for a fact that my stylist was more than capable of doing a fade. Apparently I decided to go the opposite route. It seems I was a little too cool for fades at that point in my life.

       Now that I am thirty and not thirteen I am no longer too cool for a haircut that makes me look like a normal, fully-functioning human, but my choices are limited now, because if I let my hair grow more than about two inches it starts to get sad, like a cake and also in the sense of pathetic. I'd say in that picture it's pushing three, so I can never again have hair that long, unless I decide to take the combover route, in which case I would like you to please shoot me in the brain--unless I decide to take the beard combover route, in which case I'm still awesome.

       The downside is that I would never have sex other than with Palmela Handerson, and believe it or not that would actually be different from the situation I have now. I actually have a girlfriend, believe it or not, and she doesn't even seem to mind the Elephant Man-like freakshow that is my tragically thinning hair. At least that's what she says. I'm sure she is just as disgusted by it as I am, and simply does not have the self-esteem to find a complete man, such as this one.

       Or perhaps this one.

       Or one of these two.

        Let me make myself explicitly clear. I am not joking. I would gladly trade places with one of these clown cocks simply because they have full heads of hair. I am not even taking into account the fact that they have millions of dollars. Yes, I am that superficial and yes I am that bitter.

       A lot of people think that hair loss is caused or made worse by stress. Well that would explain why Bill Clinton is balder than fuck. Oh, wait, he still has a full head of hair. It has nothing whatsoever to do with stress. I'm sorry but if you think that you have the IQ of a blowjob. You are dumb enough that I could probably trick you into electrocuting yourself, and if I ever get the chance I will do just that. Graying and other signs of aging can be stress related, but male pattern baldness is completely genetic. Plenty of men out there have experienced a lot more stress than I have, and God has yet to semi-literally take a shit on their heads, as he has on mine. 

       This is me and my friend Carson. He's the one who looks like the cool cellmate who doesn't want to rape you. I'm the one who looks like an upstanding member of society. Well looks can be deceiving because I used to be an IV drug user. I was more of a fuck-up than Carson was, and that's saying a lot. This picture was taken on the day I made two years sober. That's right, being sober for two years does not make your hair grow back. I was hoping for that and I was hoping to get super powers. But I guess I'll have to settle for being reasonably happy.

       I have long held the magical belief, on some level, that all of my problems would be solved if I could just get back my hair. Of course this is insanity. I could have the hair of a Greek god and there could be golden fleece growing out of my crotch and it probably would not solve even one of my problems. In fact, one of my biggest problems is wishing I had shit, and one of the biggest solutions to that problem is to be grateful for what I've got. And as hard as it is to say this, I would take real friends over 24 carat pubes any day of the week. 

       In closing, I think that Dane Cook should commit hara-kiri.       

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Books: The Favorite Obsolete Pastime of Virgins and Homosexuals

one of my favorite novels

    
       If someone were to ask me what is my favorite novel, I would say it's a toss up between fake dog shit and the fart whistle, because I am damn sure not responding seriously to a question like that, and also because even if I cared, I'm not exactly sure what counts as a novel. I'm pretty sure it doesn't matter whether the book is fiction or nonfiction, as long as it's hundreds of pages long and nightmarishly boring.
       Well I promise you the reader that today I will be fairly to the point. I'm not going to write an entire novel about how much I hate them, because that would be ironic, though I find that almost anything can be as long as you don't know what ironic means, and believe me, I have no fucking clue. Alls I know is that I never met a book I didn't completely despise. Maybe it's because the last time I read one I fell off my crucifix. Books are old news, people. They have been since the '50's. Why anyone would bother to read one since the advent of television is a mystery to me.

A typical book-reader. Give me your milk money bitch.

       I have found in the course of my research that there are essentially two kinds of books: the kind that sucks by virtue of the fact that it is a book and also because of its content, and the kind that just sucks by virtue of the fact that it is a book. My empirical research which has been thoroughly peer reviewed by your mother and her whore friends indicates strongly that the first kind constitutes 99.979% of books, and that the second kind will always be made into a movie, so you might as well just wait for it. Of course, this does not account for the possibility you like things that suck. In that case you might want to consider an audio book. That way you can just pop that suckiness into the CD player in your suck-a-mobile and listen to it on the drive to Suckington, Minnesucka. The bottom line here is that you don't have to read if you don't want to, my friend, and frankly, you shouldn't, and I think a little less of you just for reading these words. I would respect you more if you just browsed through the pictures and grunted your approval, or disapproval.
       I see you have chosen to continue reading. You disgust me. I bet you have beady little eyes and make a face like you're sucking on a Lemonhead all the time, and I am willing to bet you have a bat in the cave. Don't use your finger. Get a Kleenex for chrissakes.
       If I had my way I would put all your precious little books in a bonfire and burn them. That bonfire could be exactly the size of Massachusetts or some other booky little Northeastern state that thinks they're better than me. Most of the books in America are already in that general area so it wouldn't be hard to round them all up. And then you wouldn't have your precious little DaVinci Code or whatever other religious-themed detective novel masterpiece or other masterpiece you carry around to feel intellectually superior.

True, my name is remarkably ordinary, but my penchant for baby beauty pageants is anything but.

       You would think there would be something vaguely unsucky about a book that has sold roughly 100 billion kilotons of copies, and you would actually be right. The cover is amazing. Let's have a look at the cover right now and see if we can't make some judgments about the book as a whole.

       This cover is incredible. It is literally burning my retinas. The fancy handwriting goes all the way to her nose but doesn't dream of covering up those elusive eyes. I wonder if she has a bat in the cave? Perhaps we'll find out after the mystery is solved. It looks so glossy and sophisticated. Hey, like the narrative.

0/10. Go shit the bed, Dan Brown

       Now let's look at something a little more high brow. Yes, I started at the bottom. I have determined from the cover that DaVinci Code is an absolute dick with no balls of a book, standing chiefly on its elements of intrigue and suspense, and some vague sexual titillation thrown in with stern religious enforcers to confuse and frustrate the audience and ultimately keep them reading. Yep, this book is a 100 percent cynical salacious cyborg prostitute designed to keep the idiotic understimulated masses turning her pages. Your mother and her floozy cohorts wholeheartedly agree that it has no merit whatsoever. So here now is something written by an Aspie instead of a genuine r-tard.

       Ok, all sarcasm aside, this book looks pretty good, but I happen to know that there is also a website for this, and that the website actually preceded the book. So this book was created as a money grab, nothing more. I see right through you, "Robert Hamburger," and I'm so sure that's your real name, too. I'd love to buy this product that will degrade in 50 years time while the digital equivalent is free and will be there long after I'm dead. In spite of all this I give it a 9/10.
      Wow, that might be a book I would actually read, but only if the internet was down and there was nothing on television. And before resorting to that I would see if anyone was willing to read it to me while I stared blankly at something.

0/10. Clearly this book is a piece of shit. They could have at least put a picture of the author on it. Like this one.

       That would have made it a much better book. I swear I should be a goddam publisher. I could have helped this guy make some actual money so he could purchase some clothes.

"...an extraordinary success" my ass

       Can't think of anything I'd rather do on a chilly winter night than snuggle up by the fire with some milk and cookies and a book about a slaughterhouse. Why don't we just bring a carcass in my home so I can enjoy the stench of death while I sip my cocoa? You're an idiot. 1/10.

       More like A Clockwork Lazy. Where is the rest of his face? And why does he have a gear for an eye? Oh, I get it, you're trying to be symbolic. Well try harder, asshole. It doesn't make sense. I wouldn't give this a very good score. Plus, I've seen the movie, and it's basically about how rape is good, in which case I would have to give this a WTF?/10

       I've never seen your face before, Dave, but I have an overwhelming desire to punch it. Oh, right, you were being tongue in cheek with the title, which is why you decided to place it over a majestic sunrise with a fucking frou-frou stage curtain draped over it. I don't know what astounds me more, your grandiosity or your disingenuousness. Fucking goose egg.

                             "I can't imagine any greater delight than coming to Independent People for the first time"                        -chick I've never heard of who apparently smiles a lot.

     
       So this guy is supposedly one of these obscure "geniuses," as evidenced by the fact that he won the Nobel Prize a scant 97 years ago in 1955. So this other "genius" named Jane Smiley, whom we are all supposed to know about, is telling us to read this. No thanks, Jane. I can't imagine a greater delight than coming to Playstation instead, for the millionth time. And frankly I'm not sure you even exist. I have never seen you on television, not once.
       I hope this hasn't been too much of a bummer. I hope this didn't make you feel like you were back in school again, and everyone was calling you a retard because when the teacher asked you a question you would just move papers around on your desk and try to buy time, hoping that the know-it-all teacher's pet would chime in, but she never did, so you were just stuck in this sort of purgatory wanting to die, and vowing never to read anything ever again after you finished eighth grade. That same thing happened to a guy I know.




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