whiskers

I want to become a recluse and grow the type of facial hair that cave-dwelling men do. I want my beard to say, "Yes. I can fight a beast and I can win." I want my moustache to speak for me. I want the hair on my face to hijack planes and to make demands that only the glory of my beard will understand. I want to stay up all with my sideburns, watching Brewster's Millions, drinking vodka redbulls, and trying to call into C-SPAN. I want my whiskers to run for president...and when they win, they will say, "No thanks. This place is dead anyway."