The beard in this photograph is an artist's rendering, as my actual beard was not available when the photo was taken.

We are less than four hours away (unless you live in the Central, Mountain or Narnian time zones) from the conclusion of our fund-raising activities. Note that I do not say that we are nearing the end of our beard-growing; I suspect that some of us will likely continue along the Many Follicled Path for at least a few more weeks, if not until the end of winter.

A couple of years ago I shaved my "beard" into mutton chops once December arrived. There are many words to describe how my wife felt about this, and none of them are "thrilled." Photographic evidence of these chops exists on the Internets, if you know where to look.

Whatever happens to my cheeks and chin over the next eleven months, you can be sure of one thing: I'll be shaving again on All Hallow's Eve 2012 and the cycle will begin once more.

Thank you to all of our participants this year. Veterans, it's great to have you back. New guys, I hope we made you feel welcome in your rookie year.

And to all the generous sponsors: thank you, thank you, thank you. As of this writing, I offer nearly 3,600 thanks, and I hope to owe you at least 1,400 more come midnight.

Is anyone in there?

This thing is drawing to a close in just over twenty-four hours and I'm GOSH DARN HECK SPIT not entirely thrilled with my position on the donations board. If you're waiting until the last minute to make that donation, you're GEEZ O'FIDDLESTICKS PHILBIN FART rapidly running out of time, so go ahead and click that "$$" now. To everyone DANGIT CODSWALLOP RABBIT NUGGET who has already donated—whether to my beard TOOT POODLE or to one of the other nineteen participants: Thank you. I know several of you donate year after year, and it means a lot; I wish there were HOG CALLIN' PIE STUFFER more we could do to express our gratitude.

Desaturate.

I'm wearing plaid again today. If I owned an axe, I'd probably be out felling a tree right now. I almost typed "feeling a tree," which...well, let's be honest: that's an option, too. Plaid opens up a lot of new doors to a man, doubly so if that man is sporting a freshly-grown, month-old beard. Did I mention that I'm moving to the Yukon? Well, I'm thinking about it. Options, right? If I do move to the Yukon, I'm going to change my name. Not to Cornelius or Jack, but something that goes well with "Yukon," because nothing says individuality like naming yourself after where you live. Sadly, "Willoughby Kris" is uninspiring; some place names don't lend themselves well to the concept. Just ask Boise Tim or Tampa Dan. Schenectady Pete, on the other hand, is doing just fine.

Post-gap photograph.

Well, so much for posting every day. I'm sure I have a compelling reason for missing yesterday's post—alien abduction or something—but I wonder if anyone else has a theory. Anyone?

Turn your head and cough.

Happy Evacuation Day, everyone.

It probably doesn't mean what you think it means.

Then again, maybe it does.

What do you think it means?

I wish turkey only cost a nickel.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Eeeeexcellent.

I've spend the last several years building up an immunity to tryptophan just in case I have to engage a Sicilian in a battle of w—I did that wrong, didn't I?

Never mind that.

I'm seeing a lot of beard quotes this month; let's have one from the other side of the 4.

"There's a shortage of perfect breasts in the world. It would be a pity to damage yours."

— Westley, The Princess Bride

Donations, I need them.

Oops!

Whoa! It's after midnight alreadys! I blame the Olde Fartz, who distracted me with many zombie killings for two and a half hours. I'd best hurry up and get this posted before it's tomorrow everywhere. Something something boobs, something guilt, something something money, something something something boobs again.

I thought my beard had a reddish tint; now I see it's actually purple.

I beg your pardon?

How dare you question the bona fides of my digital daguerreotype, sir! The very suggestion that the likeness I have presented for your examination and appreciation could possibly be anything but the genuine article is not only patently absurd but also the very height of rudeness!

I'm afraid I rather don't like your tone, sir. Your implications, nay, I daresay accusations are quite unfounded and in having the gall to make them you show yourself to be a cad and a bounder. Of all the cheek, sir! Of all the cheek! This is an outrage, and I won't stand for it!

There! You see? That was calfskin, sir, and I doubt you've felt the like of it in your miserable life, even striking you across the cheek! I demand satisfaction! Pistols at dawn or a sizable donation to our bosom preservation fund. It's your choice, but in your shoes I ought to opt for the latter, as I am an early riser and a crack shot.

You must choose, sir, but choose wisely!

You alone can make my song take flight...

Yes, I'm exfoliating. And let's be honest: you could probably stand to exfoliate, too. I'm not suggesting that your pores are anything but pristine, but dead skin is dead skin, am I right? Go ahead. Exfoliate. I'll wait.

All done? Good. Now, as long as you're following good advice, let me suggest that you click the "$$" button up there above this post and donate a couple of bucks to help fund breast cancer research. It may not do much for your skin, but think of it as exfoliant for the soul.

Thanks.