Story of the Eyebrow

Eyebrow twirl.

I’m raising eyebrows. To be clear, I’m not referring to the League of American Moms Against Silliness (L.A.M.A.S.). That’s a different matter entirely. Let’s just say that over the past several months I have been receiving strongly worded correspondences from a LAMAS Member, with impeccable grammar, I might add, asking me to “Cease and desist in my misguided attempt to corrupt the impressionable young minds of this great nation with pithy observations about La Vida Mundano that border on the absurd, and, that most dangerous tendency of the jaded middle-class twenty-something, the sardonic.” After having this passage translated for me by a smart person, I retaliated by sending my detractor a drawing of a baby squirrel on a tricycle. Subsequently, the correspondences have stopped. For now. Back to my original point. I was in fact referring to my eyebrows, which are curiously bushy. I say “curiously” because it has been well documented that I lack the ability to grow facial hair, save for the two mustaches that rest above mine eyes. My eyebrows are so bushy that I can actually twirl them. So just in case I’m ever in a situation that calls for the plotting of a dastardly scheme, I’m covered. Granted, I look like a bit of psychopath twirling my eyebrow hair, but it’s better than having nothing to twirl, am I right fellas? Fortunately, Wife has a keen eye and has helped me keep my eye-staches from consuming my entire face and upper torso by always having a pair of tweezers on hand. Isn’t that what marriage is all about?

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