Work(ing Title)

“I understand [the President may have public speaking] disabilities. I respect that-give him a ramp, whatever.”

20 dollars later, Monzel and I have taken one step closer to Han Solo nirvana. Though you never see it in the films, Solo is no doubt a man who enjoyed a straight-razor shave.

In the basement of Citibank on University Ave is Debon’airs, the domain of Marco and Randy. After cleaning up my neckline, Randy warmed up my face with a hot towel and then went to work.

Pulling the skin and slicing down the edge of my face and neck, he would clean the razor against his palm and restart. My skin voiced discomfort at first, but ultimately I enjoyed the lively feeling of such a sharp blade.

Now we sit at the RnC, watching proper football and waiting to sink our newly shaven jaws into good pub burgers…hump day hu-ZAH!

So for the past week, Joe has been without his new favorite beverage, Henry Weinhard’s Black Cherry Cream soda. I have tried it. It is excellent. It absolutely must be enjoyed.

I find myself now in search of this refreshment, leaping in and out of the shotgun seat of his green Bonneville, barreling through Silicon Valley with a reckless fury I’ve never felt before.

We have been through the the soda aisles of six different markets in the last 45 minutes. At each stop we have rushed in with a sexual explosivo, and at each stop we have returned, heads hung low, spirits bitch-slapped. We have decided that war must be brought to the doorstep of California’s soda distributers, as clearly only violence will teach these fools what products are most important to mine and Joe’s sanity.

“Dude what the hell is going on?! So far we know of only one that has existed today-doesn’t that strike you as odd?” Yes Joe, yes indeed it does.