Oh, it was bad. Perhaps even repugnant. Taube, Christof and I had just returned from LebowskiFest West (more to come on that soon; sorry for all the teasers/taunters lately). In the spirit of the festival Taube and I grew some Duder goatees. (Actually, goatee is not truly accurate. “Goatee” only refers to the patch of hair on one’s chin. When that patch is displayed in conjunction with a moustache, I believe said combo is called a Vandyke…I could be wrong.) We had been growing them out for a month or so and for the last two weeks, both Taube and I were both desperate to rid ourselves of our paltry beards. But for the sake of The Dude, we stuck it out.
Some time during the Fest Weekend, Moustache Monday was brought up and reminisced. It was obvious that we couldn’t let such facial growth go to waste. So, we decided to have another Moustache Monday and we stepped it up. We decided on even fancier moustaches – the Musketeer for me and handlebars for Taube. However, Clamhead (the victim of the last Moustache Monday) telecommutes on Monday’s now, so we had to wait until Tuesday to taunt her with our facial art.
But at the end of Monday’s workday, Taube started to take ill. Tuesday was up in the air. It was like the beginning of June in 1944 and we were planning D-Day, but the cursed fog kept rolling in. By Tuesday morning, I still wasn’t sure if Taube was able to come in to work. I texted Taube with my mobile phone, razor in hand: I need a go/no go on Operation Porn Star. The answer came. Go. The game was afoot.
When I got into work, Taube was already there. We took a moment to laugh at each other and revel in our genius. Then Clamhead arrived. Taube and I were two little Fonzie’s; we were cool. We made no attempt to draw attention to ourselves. And for 20 minutes or so, nothing was amiss to Clamhead. She even had a short conversation with us while situating herself at her desk. But then it happened. Clamhead asked Taube a question and this time made a point of looking at him in direct dialogue for the answer. But before the answer was given, horror struck her face. The abomination of Taube’s handlebars were all consuming. She managed to eek out an “Oh Christ,” but and “oh Christ” of terror, rather an “oh Christ” meaning “NOT AGAIN! Calgon, take me away!” She turned to me. The gig was up. I was pointed at my computer in mock work, acting as if I nothing was wrong. She asked me, “And what did you do?” Naturally, I played ignorant and replied, “What are you talking about?” But as I did so I turned to her and gave her full view of my Musketeer. She rightly recoiled in disgust. Clamhead breathed furiously out of her nose, paused and then raised her voice to us, “DAMN IT, YOU TWO!”
It was all worth it. Perhaps the funniest thing was that I went about my whole day like this. I voted, I went to get coffee, I went the to market, I went to Target (to buy my copy of “School of Rock”)… Everyone had full right to say, “Ah hell, Guy. You need to shave that off, immediately.” Yet no one said a word or even pulled a confused dog’s head tilt at me.