From time to time I will do something that negates earlier statements as to my horribleness as an adult. I hope to document such instances in a segment I'd like to call "Reasons I'm a Good Adult."
I have a beard. An occasionally patchy and always reddish beard, but a beard nonetheless.
You know who else has a beard? Rasputin. And this guy. And celebrities at their absolute worst (here, here, and here). That's some pretty bad company.
But you know who is some good bearded company? Ernest Hemingway.
You may be saying to yourself, 'But, Tony, wasn't Hemingway a womanizing alcoholic in such a constant need of a fix that he would go so far as drinking rubbing alcohol for a fix? Wasn't he so crazy that he submitted himself to electroshock therapy? And didn't he, you know, improvise a Jackson Pollock painting using only a wall, his brain, and a shotgun?'
I agree. I mean, I like Hemingway as much the next guy. The Old Man and The Sea? Ferdinand the Bull? For Whom the Bell Tolls? All classics. But he did do some pretty crazy shit in his life.
True, true, my friends. But all that stuff is child's play (not to be confused with the 1988 horror movie of the same name) with the following mindfuck of a photo.
"Oh, hey Ernie. I didn't realize you had taken up a part-time job being understudy for an Off-Broadway production of Home Alone 2: Lost in New York"
Look how obviously batshit crazy he is. And the best part is that he doesn't have a beard in this photo. That clean, beardless face that is only hiding that horrifically insane mind vindicates every bearded man in the universe because it shows that maybe MAYBE having a beard made one person at least a little less crazy.
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