The Stubble Continues

No, seriously.
You can totally almost see it.
And I stopped on the way home yesterday to buy a bottle of whiskey.
While I wish I could tell you it came in a plastic bottle and that I drank the whole thing over a dinner consisting entirely of beef, I can't.
Shana was impressed, though:

"Whiskey?"

"Yup."

"You absolutely had to have a bottle of whiskey so you stopped on the way home?"

"You bet."

"And drinking it before five o'clock?"

"It's five o'clock somewhere, prolly."

"This is what you do now?"

"Manuary!"

Some people are being, possibly, more productive with their Manuary activities.
These people may not have purchased a giant cigar on their way home from work, but it is not my place to judge.
Everyone!
Look at Frank!
Our friend Frank is growing out his own facial hair to support the American Cancer Society.
You can fling money at him. There are worse places to fling it.
By the way . . . And I hope I'm not sharing too much . . . My prostate is in phenomenal shape, seriously.
Saw Palmetto and Zinc, my prostate-enabled friends, those are your keys to keeping everything in solid working order.
In fact, my prostate is probably the strongest muscle in my body right now. Or gland. Or whatever.
I could totally tow a car with my prostate, while drinking whiskey and chewing on a ginormous cigar.
That's just how I roll, internetz.
I've got to come up with more manly stuff to do. Lugging around this beard isn't exactly physically taxing.