The Trimming

I feel awful about this, but it wasn't my fault. I swear. Well, not entirely, anyway. Our friend, and hairstylist Jill gave Raegan and me haircuts in our kitchen in exchange for some computer help. I was already trepidatious, what with the two of them conspiring to give me a mohawk, but when Jill suggested she just give my beard a little cleaning up, I knew something was up.

"But that's my impeachment beard! It must be allowed to grow entirely unfettered!"
"Why?" They asked in unison.
"I don't know. Cause it's like, symbolic?"
"For what?"
"Um, for like, allowing the people to live peacefully in a free and Democratic society, pursuing their own personal happiness as best they see fit with no one screening their phone calls or starting wars based on a series of lies?"
"Can't I just clean it up a little?"
"Didn't you hear me?"
"How about just this part here? I mean, really. Who's even going to notice?"

Though I protested, not wishing to compromise the effectiveness of the impeachment beard, nor the integrity of the project as a whole, Jill and Raegan were relentless. They said I was beginning to look like a homeless person. They called me "SpongeSteve Squarehead." I resisted, accused Jill and Raegan of being covert Republican operatives, and began planning my getaway. But before I could act, Jill snipped the hair just below my ears.

And though I saw the entire effort of all I had worked for to defeat the Right Wing Enemy float down in tiny weightless strands onto the linoleum, when I finally looked up into the mirror, I had to admit it did look considerably better than before.
I'm even thinking of trimming the mustache so I'm not sucking on my hair all the time. Kind of gross, really.

But just so you know: if Bush fails to get impeached, you can blame it on Jill.