It always seemed to work for Douglas Fairbanks


Around this time a couple of years ago, I slept four and a half hours and then got up and ran a 5K race in a respectable time of about 27:45, and that was without running even a single step to train for it. So surely, I should have been able to sleep a little less than four hours and then hold my own in a fencing tournament on Saturday, right?

Well, as alluded to in a recent post, I gave it a shot, and it could have gone better. I shat the bed early on in the pools and my poor showing meant I ended up having to face a top-five competitor in the elimination round. The bright side is that I at least get to have been eliminated by someone so good that I was happy to have scored a handful of points against him, and who also turned out to be a pretty nice guy. (Compare that to the bitter pill swallowed by one of my teammates, who was eliminated by a narrow 15-14 margin and what he swears was dubious officiating. He ranted about this for the next couple of hours, and I finally reached my breaking point while we were standing at the urinals. “Since you haven’t stopped crying about that match all day, why don’t you hop up here and let me give you a change?” I said, pulling down the baby changing table located nearby.)

Also on the bright side, there was actually a really good action photo that someone else snapped just as I was scoring a nice point on someone. But I don’t have a copy of that because (a) they were selling that photo and other such action shots for $10 per 8×10 glossy, and (b) it was taken from an unflattering rear-view angle that made me look like a fat-ass.

So that’s not the photo I’m posting here. For those who have demanded it, this photo, snapped by the aforementioned crybaby teammate*, shows the much-discussed but never-before-seen moustache, not to mention a jaunty dollop of chest hair peeking over the strap of my sweaty and yellowed sous-plastron, as though attempting to compensate for my other hair-growing failings.

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Judge for yourself: Does the moustache make me look gay, like a child molester, or like a gay child molester? And if it makes me looks like a gay child molester, does that mean I look like a child molester who is gay or someone who molests gay children? You decide. And while you ponder this, why not pop over to the site and throw a couple of bucks in the jar to fight prostate and testicular cancer?

*He’s actually a good guy, and even treated me to a coffee later. What a jerk I am.

One Response to “It always seemed to work for Douglas Fairbanks”

  1. 1 Every girl loves a retardostache « Man vs. Clown!

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