Self-effacing

Beard envy. It's a menace. I know. I encountered it today at work.

Not that my beard is great or anything. It's not. I'm at perhaps my most unkempt ever. But the envy is there, and it's breaking America's—nay, the world's—heart.

See, one of my favorite co-workers (we shall call him "Bart") told me of the days long ago when his own facial shrubbery eclipsed even the current abomination that resides among my chops and jowls. Verily, his beard, it turns out has aged more years than even I: 'twill celebrate its thirtieth year in this 2007th year since, uh, something happened. And he is saddened by its close-shorn nature of late, longing for the days of a freer thicket upon his countenance.

So, haters of the beard, friends and enemies alike who would sooner take a straight razor to my cheeks than learn a bit of history: know that I suffer for a greater cause. I suffer for the beards of yesteryear. And also, I'm lazy and shaving takes effort.