After a mellow day of pounding the bottle and napping, I hear my dad walk in from a hard day in the salt mines. First thing he does is walk over to me and plant one on my tender, bulbous jowl.

Couple things…

1. Nice to see you too.
2. Help yourself to a razor please and thank you. Preferably a Gillete Mach III or higher. (I’m not all that impressed with offerings from Schick.)
3. What in Ghandi’s name did you have for lunch? Cat turds? Throw an Altoid or three down your gullet.

I won’t say that Reasons 2 and 3 were the catalysts, but I proceeded to cry the entire evening. Because I can.