I'd like to thank all of our participants this year, especially those troopers who posted day after day and went the extra mile to keep things interesting and add a little fun to our wacky venture. Whether it was an elaborate holographic hoax, bearded wrasslers, clever quizzes or original fiction, you guys deserve a pat on the back for not only sticking with it but (gasp!) actually putting some planning into our annual event. That's more than I can say for certain people (all of whom are me) this year.
To our sponsors: Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for putting your money where our scraggly, sorry excuses for beards are and helping fight a cruel disease that has taken so many wonderful people away from us far, far too soon.
We have reached the antepenultimate day in November and–as is true of the month itself–things are looking a mite bleak on the sponsorship front. If you're waiting until the last minute to pitch in, that minute is rapidly approaching.
My beard is...well, a sad, scraggly thing, as usual. There's a good reason that the event is named How NOT To Grow A Beard Month, after all. I don't expect any miracles where my own facial hair is concerned but a miraculous bump in sponsorship would certainly make for a bright end to a largely miserable month.
I still have (most) of a beard and the nagging remnants of a cold, the latter of which serves as a reminder to me that it is still Autumn, also known as the season when I seem to have some sort of cold or infection all the time. You know what makes me feel better? NyQuil. And beard sponsorship. Really. Help a brother out, okay? I've got more than enough NyQuil to last the rest of the month; beard sponsorship...not so much.
There are only two weeks left in November, and next week hardly counts because we're all going to spend the latter half either stuffing our faces or in a coma. I'm of the opinion that a coma brought on in whole or in part by the consumption of pumpkin pie is totally worth it, even if my organs are going to be harvested while I'm unconscious.
Because, really, the alternative is extremely unpleasant.
Do you really want to be conscious while your organs are being harvested?
I didn't think so.
Speaking of segues, it'd be great if you sponsored my beard.
That shelf behind me has it all: Narnia, Harry Potter, Star Wars, Foxtrot, The Lord of the Rings, Dungeons & Dragons, Dilbert, Spider-Man, The Tick, Reservoir Dogs, "Weird Al" Yankovic, Zits, World War Z and more.
What it doesn't have is a cure for cancer. In fact, none of the shelves in my house–whether they're chock full of nerdy or non-nerdy stuff–contains that cure. I checked.
If you chip in a few bucks this month, maybe the cure for cancer will be one day be as easy to find as a Star Wars book in my house. And believe me: that's pretty easy.
If I look particularly bearded today it's because I had the occasion to use actual tools in the repair of an actual lamp. I'm talking about wrenches, a screwdriver, wire cutters and even vise grips. I kid you not. I was fixin' to wrassle a b'ar after I finished, but I got distracted by Diner Dash on the Kindle Fire and wound up waiting tables instead.
It's probably for the best.