"Look at Yourself!"

When I grew my beard out, almost everybody I ran into said I looked like Ben Roethlisberger, QB for the Pittsburgh Steelers. I still don't see it, but it's come up so often that I'm resigned to it. In order to symbolize my grudging acceptance of the similarities, I recently tacked a picture of Ben Roethlisberger on the door to my room.

But I had a plan.

"Fuck you," I said to the world. "I'm shaving this scruff into a Fu-man-motherfucking-chu." And I did. I look like Jeff Galooly (spelling), the guy on the sex tape with Tanya Harding. I look a little like a retarded, unhealthy, even-more-drunk Ron Burgundy. I look- in a word- absurd. Never let it be said that I'm unwilling to embarrass myself for the amusement of my friends.

And, boy, were they amused. I'm typing this update on a Sunday night in a collared shirt (open 3 buttons, chest hair exposed) and a sport coat with tweed pads on the elbows. I'm epicly sweet.

But let us travel back in time, to Friday night, only hours after I furiously trimmed by facial hair into a not-so-neat ug'stache.

I went to a bar with a few buddies, had a few drinks, went to a party, had a a few MORE drinks (total alcohol consumption at this point: 1 Arcadia Whitsun, 1 shot Whiskey Bourbon, 1 Bass Ale, 1 Bell's Oberon, 6 shots Popov Vodka), and decided to head around the corner to do some socializing and show off the mustache.

Greg (my black friend) led the way, and I wandered into a random house a few drinks deep, ready to teach a few sophomores a lesson in beer pong. The moment I walked into the house and introduced myself to a few random chachs, I heard the following:

Chach: "You know who you like?"

Wang: "If you say 'Ben Roethlisberger' you are dead."

Chach2: "Dude! How did you know?!"

I was furious. I shaved my beard, I have a pornstache, my hair is 3 months past haircut time, and I'm rocking dress shirt/ no shirt, exposing so much chest hair CHiPs wants me for a call back. I am furious.

So I played a few games of beer pong (4-0, too many shots and beers drank to remember how many shots I took, or beers I drank), and this girl I knew started... hitting on me. This is where the night starts getting real real fuzzy, but I was told I said the following:

Wang: "What is wrong with you? Have you seen me? Look at me! LOOK AT YOURSELF!"

Anyway, I took her home, and crossed, "Hook up with a girl while sporting an absurd mustache and dressing like it's 1983" off my "Things to do Before You're 30!" list.

Does anyone doubt my magnificence? My absurd and mustachioed MAGNIFICENCE?

I thought not, bitches. If you see a man strutting your way dressed to the nines in West Michigan, sporting a fantasticly aweomely ridiculously ridiculous mustache, shout my name. I'll give you the wink and the gun, baby.

Wang