Once upon a time in a land far away lived a beard named Bruno. This beard was so sad and cold for he had no where to lay his posterior. Made fun of by the other beards with faces to attach themselves to he decided that he would go on a voyage. With bits of left over mustache and neck trimmings the beard constructed a rocketship. He filled it with Sporting Waves pomade and boarded the ship.
Only two and a half days into the journey the ship ran out of pomade and crash landed. Bruno checked the navigational instruments and was immediately perplexed.
“Florida?! Oh whoa is me!” cried Bruno the Beard. “Florida fails so hard! I will never find a suitable face to be my host.”
Bruno exited the ship and walked dejected into the dark night. It was unusually cold and Bruno was tired so he broke into the next house he found and crawled onto what he thought was a pile of beef. Too tired to care he fell into a deep sleep.
Hertrech woke the next morning with a start. What a strange dream he thought to himself as he rubbed his eyes. He dropped to his knees to say his morning prayers “God you know I have been asking for a beard for quite sometime. But not just any beard. I need to be able to execute Haraguchi style drifts and smoky burnouts with ease so please find me a beard dripping with testosterone and chunks of dried tiger in it – Amen.”
He walked to the bathroom scratching his face still groggy. But something felt strange. He slammed the medicine cabinet shut and peered into the mirror. There was what appeared to be a black growth on his chin and cheeks. He ran to his bedroom grabbed his glasses and returned to the mirror fully awake. His heart started pounding as he inspected his face covered in hair. He pulled on it as drops of testosterone dripped into the sink. He felt power surge through his extremities.
Immediately Hertrech grabbed his keys and ran to the driveway. He plopped into his FC and started the engine. Smoke billowed from the rear wheels, women were cheering, men stood in ovation, old ladies hearing aids squealed as the smokiest burnout the world had ever seen played out before them.
The beard had found a home, and The Big Hert had become a man. Florida was saved.
This Thanksgiving I was unable to make it home due to my car catching on fire.
In protest I ignored all the invites of my friends to eat with them and their crazy families and worked fruitlessly in the freezing cold all day in efforts to stop the bleeding on my hooptie. Once I could no longer feel my feet or hands I went to find some food. But nothing containing turkey or yams because I was not thankful.
SURPRISINGLY there were no restaurants open. 7:30 Thanksgiving day and I could not find anywhere to fill my belly. But wait!! What’s this? As I crept down the block with cars overtaking me honking and raising their fingers in salutation I spied a glimmer of red light. CHECKERS! Yes. What better place to eat a meal in protest of this sorry day than Checkers. As I pulled to the faceless speaker board into which you speak your order I knew exactly what I wanted.
The meal that Leon Phelps made so famous, the fish sandwich. If you know anything about Checkers (and why would you not) you know that their fish sandwich is no normal sandwich. It has not one but two fish patties. Double the fun.
As I sat on my pleather couch watching a red box movie and smiling for the first time that day with a mouth full of what I hoped was codfish, I realized I was indeed thankful. I was thankful that those poor salty teenagers were forced by their slave master boss’ to work on this holiday long enough to make me a sandwich with not one but two fish patties, french fries, two apple pies and an Oreo milkshake.
And yes I put the fries in my sandwich.
Andy Warhol. Definitely a great artist. To me some of his best work was done on Bavarian metal.
Which led to homage being paid to his original. The latest one I know of is by Jeff Koons.