Down With the Sickness


Now,  I promise that this will not be an attempt to excuse myself for my negligent, pathetic, and horrific lack of blog posts in the past few weeks.  I have no interest in handing out blame.  Doing so could only lead to tears.  I considered making up stories about a zombie unicorn attack or my ill-fated trip to Florida in an attempt to make the Major Leagues with the St. Louis Cardinals.  But those would be lies.  And I’m better than that.  You deserve better than that.  The truth is… I’m pretty lazy, and when I get home from work I’m usually pretty tired.

Now that the truth is out there, I want to thank you all for sticking with me!  I’m impressed, and more than a little surprised, at the amount of traffic I’ve been receiving in these dark days of “no-posting”.  Good for you!  I can see that the public is desperate for some beard-related entertainment, and I feel horrible that I’ve been so bad about providing it.  I’d make promises about lots of posts in the near future, but… well, the proof is in the pudding as my father always said.  (actually I’m not sure he’s ever said that.  don’t take that as a direct quotation.)

  And I don’t offer this statement as mitigation, but I do think you should know:  I’ve been pretty sick for about a week and a half, now.  I don’t want to make light of serious illness, but I’m pretty sure that I have the Ebola virus.  Or the plague.  Or chicken pox.  Or gout.  I’m not really a doctor.  I just know I’ve been sick. 

I thought that Oliver had been protecting me.  I felt that any truly dangerous contagion was being filtered out by his bristly awesomeness.  Perhaps I had a cocoon of hairy protection by my mouth and nose.  I even briefly considered the possibility that Oliver had developed some sort of force-field of masculinity that was, by sheer force of will, preventing any potential illness from infesting me.  I have since discarded this notion.

It turns out that I am mortal, despite the increasingly impressive Oliver.  Who knew?  Now… a little picture.  And no promises… but a little wink and a nod.

Only 227 more days...

Peace out, beardo’s.



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