IT'S NOT ABOUT SELF-EXPRESSION!

Cossack moustache and women in high heels talking dirty. Remarkable search criteria, and it baffles me that precisely those brought at least two new readers here yesterday. In case you didn't realize it, I do not have a Cossack moustache, and am not a dirty woman talking in high heels.
I have no Cossack moustache, not even a Cossack haircut.
Which, I hear, looks like precisely like a herring.
I am a very clean man several ways.

Standard haircut, normal clothes, regular baths.
Teeth brushed, mouth rinsed, no tattoos.
With a delightful aroma of pipe.
That last takes the cake.
It is SO evocative!
Trust me.


I have never understood the people with tattoos, piercings, unique and dubious clothing choices, and doubtful shower habits, who pull up their noses and wrinkle their little faces at the smell of tobacco. Or, for that matter, the consumerite office bitch-queens with too much make-up, an excess of perfume, and deeply visible cleavage, who do likewise.

What, your over-the-top bad taste, brazen tackiness, clearly evident moral reprehensibility, and look-at-me personal style -- that thoughtless and shallow abundance of spoiled self-centeredness, attitude, ego, and bourgeois rebellion -- is perfectly okay, but my being a middle-aged man with a pipe offends you?

Maybe you aren't repressed enough.


I find it hard to believe that most people with tattoos and piercings are actually worthwhile human beings, although there are some remarkable exceptions, one of whom is brilliant and will become a doctor. I just find skin-invasive skin dermal decoration disturbing, and wonder at the sense and sensibility of the willing victims. Yes, I know that numerous highly respected people have tattoos or piercings; Donald Rumsfeld looks like a biker without his clothes, but I do NOT want to see him naked.
I appreciate him wearing suits.

And, being a completely rigid square, I damned well refuse to be in the company of folks who reek of patchouli oil, Hello Kitty perfume, or a bucket-load of fancy bottle pong. Real people smell real.
Patchouli is not real; it's hippy dipwad concentrate.
Hello Kitty perfume is fit only for cartoon cats.
Fancy bottle pong is the bane of elevators.


General rules for being an acceptable social animal: Dress decently, wash often, open doors for others, yield your seat, be kind, don't make a scene, and have a few civilized bad habits -- pot isn't one of those.
Above all, don't be a spectacle, and don't embarrass others.
No cracks, cleavage, or dirty fingernails.
Modulate your voice.


Growing a big bushy Cossack moustache on your face is probably dashing, socially risk-free, and may even be normal in some places.
Unless you customarily wear high heels and talk dirty.
In that case, people might look askance.
Not just me.


Repress your bestial self.




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