Like you, I “Google” myself from time to time. There is a lot of information on me out there, if I do say so modestly. Tons of information, and most of it true. But you know what? My face wasn’t always like what you’ve seen in the photos. Do you really think I was born with, grew up with, lived with and died with a white beard?
Of course not, you morons. Why are there only pictures available of me with a white beard?
Truth is, I had a real difficult time growing facial hair when I was younger. My grade school peers called me Babyface. The last time that happened, however, was sixth grade, after Greg Ferguson experienced the feeling of my boot to his balls. Hit him so hard they came out his ears.
My problem with this whole beard thing is that I just look so old in my photos. Just do a Google Image search. I was only 63 when the pneumonia took me away, but my most formidable years were in my 30s. During that time, I pulled so much ass with my gentlemanly good looks. And I pulled it all with a clean-shaven, albeit masculine, face. But see, had I chosen to grow a beard during that time, the hair would have been brown.
Certainly today, a white beard is merited, as I’m going on 202.
Research will tell you that many of my battles were fought with a full beard. What, Sherlock, you think we had showers and running water out there in the field? You think Chancellorsville had a goddamned Hampton Inn? Hell no! We barely had enough water if we drank our own filtered piss, much less having enough for shaving.
And have you ever used a straight razor before? What, you think we had a five-blade Fusion back then, Einstein? Of course not, you twit! It was downright painful and bloody to shave without hot water and cream.
But then what do you go on and do? Erect an entire Richmond monument, to me, on a horse, bearded! I understand that such a depiction is historically accurate, but do you realize how little of my life was spent with a beard, much less on a battlefield? The rest of the time I was back at home, taking care of the family farm, feeding the the kids, getting in precious time with wifey and looking like a clean-shaven George Fucking Clooney.
Make that Clooney in Michael Clayton, not Clooney in that liberal Syriana shit.
OK. Enough. All I’m saying is consider another monument for me. One without a beard, and perhaps playing horseshoes with my boys. Apparently you don’t have any pictures to “go off of” to see what I looked like beardless. But you’ve got the computer technology to figure it out, I know you do. Hell, I just found myself on a Google search. Let me know when you figure something out. Meanwhile, the wife was reincarnated into a billy goat last year so I’m going to finish this up and go trawling for some tail.
If you need me, I’ll be over there talking to Marilyn Monroe. She’s only 82 and apparently loves men of power. Hook, line and sinker!