I guess I should apologize for the lengthy void since my last post. The truth is that until recent months, I’ve pretty much spent my time between home and at work...basking in the warmth and protection of my own imaginary, utopian bubble. As a result, I have not been overly exposed to the primary subjects of my usual rants...PEOPLE.
Unfortunately for you, my hiatus is over because I’ve been traveling a bit recently...as well as forcing myself to get out more to try and become more human-like and “social”. This morning, I took daughter and one of her friends to breakfast at a really nice local eatery, just to spread a little sunshine and butter with others. Everything was going swimmingly until the server brought my grits...and in walked Mr. Pits. ARM-PITS that is!
I’m okay with someone being comfortable in their own skin, but there is something “in-hair-ently” wrong with armpit hair at breakfast. As a matter of fact, at ANY meal. And since this man’s wife, family and/or friends have neglected to inform him of this (for whatever reason), I feel it an obligation (just in case he stumbles upon my blog) to educate him with this tid-bit of arm-pit knowledge, taste and common courtesy:
It doesn’t matter how buff you think you are, no one wants to see your mounds of muff protruding from ‘neath your inflated biceps and self-image at the dinner table. One finds it hard to concentrate on how delicious and airy a Belgium waffle tastes whilst 2 wooly furballs are staring them down from your under-arm region(s). Instead, I prefer you head on over to Pigeon Forge and hover around the Shoney’s breakfast bar where muscle shirts and tank-tops abound... and the occasional, errant hair in the metal dishpan of swine-slopping bacon causes no great alarm. You (nor your pits) will stick out as badly and there will be 0% chance of me ever seeing your pits... while eating my grits - again.
"Things are not as bad as they seem...they're worse!" - Bill Press
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