The Comb Over

It pains me to admit it. My pride and my manhood are both called into serious question because of it. But the first step to recovery is to identify the problem. Here it goes...
I have a bald spot. It's in the back so most people don't notice it. Those who do see it always do a double take to see if it is what they thought is was. Then they grimace and shake their heads a little. They never say anything to me of course, that would be rude, but I can feel the shame. They are almost embarrassed to see this great flaw in the otherwise perfect facade that I present. But it's true.
Last year I noticed a little bit of thinning. A little in the front. Some in the sides. But mostly in the back. It's undeniable now. It's bare, and it's patterned. I've tried to hide it by covering it up, but that is only temporary. I tried cutting it short to disguise the fact that it's all but gone in the back, but that just opened it up for more burning from the relentless summer sun.
I know it happens to other guys. But that knowledge does nothing to console the fact that it has happened to me. Some might say that it was inevitable, but I could have done more to prevent it. It may have been the stress, there has been a lot of stress in the last year. But now that stress is gone, and it's time to do something about it.
I can only hope that it grows back and fills in. But that process is slow. I need something to fix it now. I've resolved to try the comb over. Let it grow long around the edges of the spot, then pull it over to cover as much as possible. I know it looks goofy at first, but once it gets thick enough I think it will really look good.
The next option is transplants. I've done them before. From the front to the back. Even from the front to the sides. But now I don't know where I have enough to really fill in in the back. Maybe I'll have to ask one of my friends who I gave transplants to earlier this year. Had I know I would have needed all of it I would have been more hesitant to give it away. I gave away some of my best growth. Long and thick with good root structure.
But transplanting is my last option. I've done too much to risk it now. I'll wait till spring when the growth starts again. For now, I'll just have to be carefull when mowing in the back yard to let the grass around that bare patch grow long enough to comb over.
Please, be nice to the men with bald spots. Not all lawns are created equal.

Signs of the Times

This morning the last few remaining Corn Bursts in my cereal bowl formed themselves into a distinct image. It was not just the random shapes formed by the surface tension of milk, but a truly significant image that held a powerful message for me and all those would see it. Of course I was the only one who did see it, no one else in the house being awake at the hour that I eat breakfast. What that image would foretell about my day could not have been imagined until all the great accomplishments were finished and I had time to reflect back on the true meaning of what I had seen and done.
The image was that of a llama. Or possibly an alpaca. But it was obviously a woolly Andean pack animal. And it was walking along the perimeter of my cereal bowl. Not walking upright mind you, but walking as if the bowl were a large hamster wheel, or llama wheel, turned on its side in the normal manner of cereal bowls so as to not dump milk and cereal onto my pants or the floor.
The great events that occurred as predicted by the llama are too many to list here, but they included being randomly selected for drug screening and having to pee while someone watched, and someone buying me an orange soda for showing him how to use Power Point to animate objects.
So there you have it. Feel free to start up your own religion based on the sighting of the walking llama. I only ask that you send a meager 8% of all profits and royalties to the political campaign of Bog Marti.
Bog Marti, Republicrat for Office. - Supported by millions of woolly Andean pack animals and you.

On Super Heroes

I saw an episode of Stan Lee's "Who wants to be a super hero?" on the Sci-Fi channel. As far as reality television goes, this is one of the better ones. Better is a relative term because I can also say that as far as poisons go, arsenic is one of the better ones. Or, as far as forms of torture go, being repeatedly punched in the face by a woman who looks like a silver back gorilla is one of the better ones. That said I think everyone should understand that reality television, by definition, is poorly written, poorlier acted, and poorliest produced; with the added benefit of being as addicting as cocaine to the self feeding frenzy of entertainment television.
What I do like, however, is the idea of dressing up as a super hero (or super dork depending on your costume and/or powers) and running around in public places. There is nothing less attractive than an overweight woman in brightly colored latex, except, of course, a man, regardless of physical conditioning, in brightly colored latex.
Truly the costume is one of the secrets of a super hero's apparent invulnerability. An evil doer cannot keep them in the sights of their weapon while constantly averting their eyes, or falling to the ground in fits of dry heaves. Changing into costume in an unobtrusive yet public place is also part of their psychological bag of tricks. Much like the disgusting homeless person we all pretend we don't see, we just pretend that we don't see Bob from accounting slipping behind the office shrubbery and putting children's underoos on his head.
We all know that the true heroes in the world are not those in the brightly colored latex. They are the men and women who work behind the scenes. Going to work everyday and making the world safer one memo at a time. Secretly talking about Bob behind his back and asking someone in Human Resources to please talk to him about his insistence on calling everyone "citizen."
Big Morty salutes those who keep lesser super heroes in check. After all, if there were too many of us around my yellow spandex body suit would just look faddish.

Goodbye to Our Little Friend

Rest in Peace Russell the Jack Russell Terrier.
You tore up my lawn and crapped all over the place. You barked at nothing and smelled bad. But you were our friend.