Wednesday, December 21, 2005


This is how my day starts: sitting at the infamous four-minute red light to get out of my neighborhood, shaving. Then the electric razor starts to groan. It moans. It expires.

The right side of my face is shaved. The left side is not.

Think I'm stopping at a convenience store to pick up a razor and some shaving cream? Think again. I'm in the middle of the holiday death march, I'm worn down, and my giveadamn is busted.

I'll say it's an art installation--shavebeardshave. I'll sit in a chair with the drained razor on a table beside me. Then I'll just wait for the $25,000 checks to start rolling in.

I report promptly to the operations manager when I reach work. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm violating company hygeine policy," I said.

"Oh God!" she said, putting her hands over her face. "Don't show me!"

That's what happens when your finest professional skill is lowering the bar.

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