What hair? I hear yah. Well, let's start dirty. So I was having breakfast in Spain back when the ducks still had hair, and there was this German woman sitting across from me at another table very nearby and not so far away. She looked as delicious as my croissant and was clearly as well-groomed as my cat Mongo AKA The Batcat. I smiled at her. She didn't smile back. I smiled again. Nothing. Har. So I just eyeballed my croissant and decided to show it no mercy for spite. Then, just as I was about to take that first bite, teeth glistening with saliva, said woman showed me her armpits and revealed two lady caves so bushy and woolly I quickly put down my croissant and wanted to vomit. Good morning, Vietnam! Talk about am-buuuuuush!
I like you too.
So this morning I was minding my own business (no, not that kind of business — Hey, you've got a dirty mind!), taking an early morning stroll around town, when I noticed an impatient crowd waiting in front of a suspicious barbershop. It looked like a riot was imminent. And when I say crowd I mean thirty men. (You're thinking dirty men, I know.) I thought, This must be a new movie theater that I haven't heard about, and the movie they're playing's got to be a reboot of Hair. It wasn't. Turns out it was a new barbershop and each and every one of those thirty or so men wanted to be the sole owner of the exact same haircut and feel special. That's right, a contradictio in terminis. How could you possibly feel special looking the same? Well, the rules seem to be different when you're copycatting the Italian soccer player Graziano Pellè. Who? Soccer... what's that? I know. But basically everyone in said crowd (and we're talking grown-ups, not impressionable teenagers seeking an identity that doesn't work) was willing to go to great lengths to look like this guy:
they all ended up looking...
|No we ain't brothers, bro. We're VERY special!|
Perfect cloning too.
And I'm not kidding either. Everywhere I go, I keep seeing guys looking like this. Could it be, I wonder, that all of them happy chaps are members of some super secret society that my handsome blue spies don't even know about? Could it be that their special haircut plus matching beardcut are like a special signal — a secret signal, a super duper secret signal — to grant them access to some super dupery secret place my blue-and-soon-to-be-fired spies are oblivious to, but I'm not? So now I'm wondering... how come I wasn't invited? You know me, I'm as curious as a nun on Monday, so I need to infiltrate their cave (no, not the nuns' bushy caves) after first firing my friggingly useless handsome spies.
So, what do you think…. do I look the part? Don't I look "special" too?
Everybody: Gliddy gloop goopy, nibby nabby noopy!
Who did you copycat?
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