If someone where to ask me, "What do you want on your tombstone, Adam?" I would make some hilarious joke about cheese and pepperoni and then say the actual epitaph, which would be this: He held up a mirror, and allowed us to see ourselves in a way that, while often disturbing, was necessary because it allowed us to become better humans.
But if I had two epitaphs, the second would say: He was never afraid to experiment with his hair. Because while some people walk through life always looking the same, getting their hair cut once a month and then eating saltines on white bread, What's So Funny is like a box of retarded people: You never know what you're gonna get.
One day, I'll come at you all clean-cut and J.Crew-looking, and you'll think, "Oh man, look at this go-getter. I'll bet he kicks ass on Wall Street and takes names on Sunset. I'm going to ask him if he wants to buy one of my Weimaraners." And then you'll see me later, and I'll be hairy as a hobo but suave, and you'll think, "Get a load of this fucking Rimbaud! I want to drink vino tinto with this magnificent Beat creature, then howl at the harvest moon." And the crazy thing is, during different periods of my hair growth, both of those thoughts are exactly right.
My latest foray into matters follicle has been a beard that I grew to support my Colorado Rockies in their effort to take home a world championship. Loyal readers are well aware of this. But while the Rockies blew it in the Series, the beard still kicks ass. It's not so much a beard as it is a pelt, dark like a British forest, yet soft like a British soldier. The other day, I was merely discoursing with a group of friends, and next thing I knew, all of them were turning in literary theory papers to me, and I was inexplicably wearing a corduroy blazer with elbow patches. That's how good the beard is. But loyal readers are also aware that I chucked the Denver Broncos under the bus for that beard. I wrote that I would be willing to see the Broncos have a shitty season in order for the Rockies to make the playoffs. The Rockies made the playoffs, I grew a beard, and the Broncos are injury-plagued and shitty. And I am to blame for this — me and no one else, as my friend Darren is quite fond of pointing out. But as I am quite fond of pointing out, Darren is dyslexic.
Still, the other day I found myself feeling awful for our beloved Broncos and longing to, in some way, atone. I thought long and hard about how I could make amends for my behaviors and then it hit me: I would wax my back.
I am not disgustingly hairy, I assure you. What's So Funny is not the guy who approaches you on the beach in a wife-beater, back-quilt spilling over, and then aggressively asks in a Jersey accent, "Aay, you want I should oil you sexy broads up? Fugedaboudit!" What I am is flamingly and alarmingly white. I am the whitest person you could ever hope to meet. My skin doesn't tan or burn. In response to the sun, my skin only grows more powerful in its luminescence. It outshines the sun, sends it scurrying behind some clouds like a coward, leaving me and my Irish flesh alone to contemplate our hatred of the English. But I'm also Russian. Even worse, Jew Russian. So I have, how you say, dark hair. Couple dark hair with honky-cracker skin and there's going to be some noticeable follicles on the old espalda. While the amount isn't huge and is confined mostly to the upper neck-ish area, I recently decided enough was enough and headed to the place where my sister gets her eyebrows did to take care of business.
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The worst part? Not only did the woman doing it know one of my co-workers, but she knew the co-worker who likes to give me the most shit out of anyone in the office. Bully for me! Now I have to mention it in my column — to, in essence, own it — before that prick can have a field day. Huzzah!
The best part? It didn't hurt all that bad. And now my back is clean enough to eat off of. But I will only be serving humble pie. Because I will watch the next three Broncos games shirtless, exposing my back for all who wish to see it, in order to atone. I know this flies in the face of previous hair experiments, that it is extremely metrosexual of me and in no way befitting of my manly beard, but it is a penance that I put upon myself for my transgressions, as is the inevitable ridicule that this column will bring. For when the Broncos turn their season around, you will know that it was I, What's So Funny, who carried the team on my beautiful, hairless back.
And when I'm gone one day, and you read my epitaph and think about all the zany things I did, you'll look down at your shoes and you'll smile. "Man," you'll say to yourself. "What's So Funny was really a fucking idiot."