Curing Stinky Beard Stank

Grow a beard. It's manly. Wash that beard. It's disgusting.

If you're blessed with the thick facial hair that's potential is even a quarter of da beard on Brett Keisel's face, then you owe it to the world to grow that son of a bitch out. But the world is also owed a thorough washing of said facial feature.

Hair holds scent well. Too well. While you may grow accustom to the unrelenting odors emanating from your chin Wookie, the general populace has not. The stench of the fourth meal gut-bomb you chowed last night lingers.

Now, your beard scent is of little concern if you're a hermit attempting to attract bears; however, if the social scene is your goal, beard scent improvement is a must.

Start with a scrub-a-dub-dub using some Head & Shoulders shampoo. The potent formula not only cures dandruff but allows hair to defy gravity. Like a puffy, billowing cloud, your beard is heavenly. Warning: do not use Head & Shoulders on your pubic hair.

Now that the beard is floating like cloud nine, pull out that fresh lice comb. In addition to quelling pesky lice rebellions, the comb will sift out the food leftovers you were saving for later. The Frosted Flakes from this morning. The Fritos from lunch. The French fries from last week. Dinner is served.

The beard may give the illusion of a fluffy cloud, but it's rough as sandpaper. Time to condition that bitch. Lather up with a handful of Suave Apple Conditioner. Fuck...use the whole bottle...it's cheap as shit. Costs a buck at the Dollar Tree and at that price it's easy to afford a supple beard that smells like you fucked apple pie.

Finally, spritz the beard with the fantastic fragrance of Axe Body Spray. Axe commercials guarantee hot bitches and you haven't had an encounter with one of those since your last trip to the gentlemen's club. Don't hold back. Let the Axe can do the work.





Wonderful. Magnificent. Delicious. Free of food clutter, the beard no longer smells like the Denny's Grand Slam you just ate. Instead the beard buddy on your face smells like a dry-scalped, apple-fucking, frat boy and could be used as a facial flotation device.

Super manly.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Fantasy Football Fuckers

Every year you sign up for the same blistering punishment. The NFL season is supposed to be a joyous time, but instead, you're dealing with the anguish of another awful fantasy football clusterfuck. Nothing goes your way. Draft picks blow. Injuries hit hard. Your piecemeal team doesn't perform.

Beyond the expectation of failure and embarrassment are the various personalities making up the rest of the league. The other managers are friends, but they're the friends you love to hate. Here, now, are the ten people in the league that make you hate the new American past time...

The Cocky Champion
Everyone hates a winner. Hey, chump, you aren't God's gift to fantasy football. Gloating lasts a couple months and you're guaranteed a reminder next season. The league was auto draft, twat hole!

The Mid-Season Quitter
Overly enthusiastic at the beginning of the season, this ass clown waves the white flag after getting repeatedly crushed through the first eight weeks of the season. He's lost interest and neglects his rotation. The abandoned team has byes and IR's throughout. He beat you week one, but everyone else gets an easy W.

The Armchair Quarterback
Lending rotation advice in the middle of Sunday's action. Often unsolicited. Where the fuck were these injury reports and player updates four hours ago?!

The League Historian
Dude...I don't give a FUCK who won the cheapo $5 buy in league last year, let alone who won it the year prior. Focus on this year. Your team blows.

The Team Analyst
Reviewing all the draft picks and free agent signings...of his team. Reliving the draft picks one by one. Recounting the stellar free agent snags. Even the obscure players. Who fucking cares?

The Player Hoarder
This guy cleared his bench immediately following the conclusion of the draft and started collecting all the quarterbacks. When your QB goes down, you have to deal with this dude, and he'll screw you. He won't win the league, only your ire.

The Chat Braggart
No one reads that smack talk chat window. The text is in faint, six-point font and your insults suck. Get some wit and a skywriter and I might pay attention.

The Low-Ball Trader
Offering you a trade for your first round RB with some garbage free agent shit you watched him pick up last week. Nice try, buddy, but I can read the stats sheet just as well as you. Go fish.

The Fantasy Professional
If this guy isn't getting paid to play this shit, he's spending way too much fucking time doing it. Lobbies for an in-person draft annually and is consistently disappointed. He's willing to take a field trip to training facilities for scouting purposes.

The Lucky Noob
This newbie's never played in a fantasy league. He's been asking you for pointers all season long. When it finally comes time to smear this queer in head to head, he owns you 147 to 62. Fuck.

Fortunately your fantasy team doesn't make the playoffs so you can enjoy what's left of the regular season. With a sigh of relief, you can finally appreciate a Sunday afternoon of NFL action without pouring over stats, rooting for players on teams you hate or dealing with the bitches in your league. It's over...

...until next season.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Recovering with Tiger Blood

The surgery is over. Recovery is in full swing.

One week ago, I went in for a pain-reducing, face-altering operation to realign my jaw and correct my enormous cross bite and minor under bite. The surgeons moved my crooked jaw one centimeter over, the upper jaw two millimeters forward, and the lower jaw two millimeters back. Metal screws and pins were used to hold the hot mess together. End result: a straight bite alignment with a very slight over bite.

The remnants of the extensive correction linger. Scabs over the small pokes into various veins. One needle prick is still swollen and bruised because of a botched entry by a student doctor. I happen to be a squeamish pussy and damn near passed out as a result. The nurse saved me.

Swelling was the worst the day after leaving the hospital. By the time I arrived home, the steroids controlling inflammation had worn off and my face ballooned. Overly voluptuous lips. A massive double chin. Chipmunk cheeks. Friends compared the temporary bloating to Professor Klump. Fortunately the swelling seems to be rapidly receding.

Numbness has taken over the lower half of my face. The tip of my nose and upper lip have been slightly affected. Lower lip and down has been put to sleep and does not respond to touch. Attempts to move comatose flesh are futile. Facial expressions suffer. Because I lack the desire to take a razor to parts of my body without feeling, I am now growing a beard. Besides keeping me warm and fashionably Portland, it hides the bruising well.

Blood ceased trickling from my nose a few days ago. Instead blood combines with mucus and forms a dark red gelatin mix that is blown out into tissues. If the blood/mucus gelatin isn't cleared, it sets in the nostrils as crystal blood boogers.

Pain has been tricky to finger. Most invasive portions of the operation were conducted on bone, specifically the mandible and maxilla. Because of the bone work, I was told to expect immense pain. Worse than my last surgery, a hernia repair. So far I have found this not to be the case. During the hernia repair the surgeon had to cut through considerably more flesh and muscle resulting in near blackout levels of pain. The recent orthognathic operation was similar to breaking a bone, and while I have been woken by pain at night, I have not experienced symptoms of fainting...excluding that student doctor experience.

Of course pain management is primarily done through the use of my friend, liquid oxycodone, or as I have nicknamed it, Tiger Blood. The stuff is bright red, smells like poison and tastes about the same, but the potent effects make stomaching the drug more palatable. In an attempt to raise some quick cash, I am weening myself off the Tiger Blood and plan to sell it on e-bay ASAP.

Pain, swelling, and a new mouth appliance make speech difficult. For the first couple days following the surgery, mumbles and grunts were commonly misconstrued leading to a frustrated ShavedGolf scribbling communications on anything in arm's reach. As the pain and swelling subsided, the speech returned, and I was able to make my first semi-coherent phone call yesterday.

Maintaining proper body weight for the duration of recovery will be a struggle. Surgeons predict that a patient's body mass will be reduced by 10%. Meaning my already skinny ass will be losing approximately 14 pounds. In the past week since the operation, I've lost eight pounds. So for those of you mathematically challenged, I may shrink six more pounds to end up at a puny 128. Just about nine stone for you weird English relatives. Can't remember the last time I tipped the scale at such a staggering weight.

Weight loss is, of course, attributable to my chewing inability. My incapacitated incisors are due in large part to my fucking jaw bones breaking, but also because the surgeons installed a nice piece of hardware. A quasi mouthguard. Attached to my upper braces, the mouthguard will remain in place for about four weeks. For now, I'm all liquids. But hopefully soft solids can be added to the menu as early as this weekend.

The operation and it's buildup have been a long process, but with recovery well underway, an end is in sight. I'm encouraged by what I've seen so far and the recovery progress made in just one week. Very soon I'll be back to the fun-loving, high-spirited, binge drinker you know and love...

...but until that time, I'm trippin' balls on Tiger Blood.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Surgical Strike

The teeth are orthodontically positioned. The surgeons are well practiced. The hospital is prepaid. Tomorrow I wake my ass up at 4:30 AM for an orthognathic necessity .

This surgery has been on the docket for the last decade. It's been a goal for ten years, and the dull, numbing jaw pain has been a constant reminder of a goal left incomplete. The old adage of course being anticipation is a bitch, but I did not fear the surgery because I had pain and the operation was the solution.

However, anxiety caught up to me Tuesday morning at the pre op. The surgical strike force explained their mission in detail. Using a spliced up skull as a prop, the head surgeon provided a visual illustration of the procedure. To cope with the mental images of my filleted pallet, I decided to blog. Second only to drinking heavily, I find writing to be the most therapeutic activity.

Tonight's therapy will be a blanket criticism of just about everyone I know and a six pack of the cheapest beer I could find at the gas station Kwik E Mart.

Without a doubt the question received most frequently: "Are you nervous?" Trite. The conversation opener was constantly repeated. The absurdity of the question should be obvious, but it became the norm in response to the operation's description. Comparable to the greeting, "How are you?" demanding a response of "Fine," I'd respond with an equally meaningless, "No."

But to answer the question truthfully...of course I'm fucking nervous! A team of dudes I barely know are about to cut open my head through my mouth to slice bones in my skull and rearrange them as they see fit. If I wasn't nervous for a procedure of this magnitude, I would not be fully appreciative of the future face fuck coming my way.

Conversation progresses with, "Oh, I'm sure you'll do fine." The statement is not to be taken literally, but I do for humor's sake. Well I won't be doing anything. I'll be knocked the fuck out and so doped up when I come to I'll likely ask the surgeon, who looks like Dr Turk, to do his awesome Poison dance.

The conclusion is something along the lines of, "Welp...good luck!" Thanks. This I need. Good luck. Despite my friend's sincerity, half the time it feels like a *wink wink* I know you're fucked statement. Luck is all there is to offer because there is immense ignorance about the procedure from both parties.

In the name of therapy, I hope you all find it in your hearts to forgive my blog bashing of your dribble surgery banter over the past month. You're a friend, and I appreciate your sympathies.

Like a porn star faking an orgasm for a better performance, I'll fake courage for my operation in the hopes of not looking like a total puss. Despite being scared shitless, I know that I'll come out much improved on the other side. Less pain. Improved bite. Beautiful smile. The knowledge of better days ahead is keeping me together...

...that...and a cheap ass six pack.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf