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6:30 a.m. - 2005-01-04


So I got an email from the lady in charge of the New Year's Eve party yesterday.

"Thank you so much! You were great! Everyone loved you!" it read.

"I had a great time! I loved everyone! I was great!" I emailed back.

"We had a great time! You are like a fat God! You make my nether region tingle!" she wrote back.

"Next time you need me, I'll throw Karaoke in for free!" I wrote back.

"We need you February 26th!" she wrote back.

"Done!" I wrote back. "And take care of those tingling nether regions!"

So see kids?

The moral of the story is ... don't screw over people for more lucrative gigs on New Year's Eve because it pays off in the end with repeat business.

I forgot to mention one guy from the party the other night.

Twenty years ago, he used to come out to the club and just kinda stand around, staring at all the women.

His hair was thinning, he dressed like a schlub and I never saw him dance. He just drank and stared like a drunken staring guy.

Saturday night he showed up.

With a big assed batch o' hair on his head.

This was the closest thing to a white man afro I have ever seen. He had more hair than Bigfoot has on his entire body on his head.

He also had a thick mustache now.

And was wearing a brown turtleneck because ... turtlenecks are SEX-SAYYYY!

And to top it all off, a thick gold chain that would be more at home around the neck of P. Diddy than a 50 year-old toupee-wearing dork.

He walked over near me to pour himself a drink.

"You used to come to Stagger Lee's didn't you?" I grinned.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

The man was scared shitless I was going to say "What's with all the hair and gold chains, loser?"

I just smiled and he put the cap back on the whiskey and ran off into the crowd.

I wasn't going to blow the guy's cover and announce that he used to have a pale head and was a card-carrying member of the Gawk Squad back in the day.

But I have to ask ... how do guys go about deciding how to introduce their hair piece to the world?

I mean ... on Wednesday you show up for work and you're working that combover like a strutting model on the catwalk.

That night you go to the mall.

And on Thursday, you walk in with a head full of fake hair.

If it were me, I'd make a joke about it and say something like "I went to bed last night and in the middle of the night this giant muskrat attached itself to my head and now I can't get it off. I sure hope everyone can adjust themselves to it, because I don't think it's prying its claws out of my skull anytime soon."

And then hope that nobody is snickering behind my back and pulling their hair straight up to get a chuckle out of their co-workers after I pass them in the hallway.

But you KNOW that's what happens.

I've never known anyone to go the hair piece route, so I really don't know.

Going bald is just another cruel fact of life. I should know ... I have a bald spot the size of the Oregon National Forest on the crown of my head.

But it has never even crossed my mind to buy a piece so I look younger.

Because you don't LOOK younger.

You look like a guy desperately trying to look younger but actually looking like you have a decaying muskrat on your head that you don't know about.

And let's face it ... some women find balding men sexy. It's a sign of ... uhhhh ... dwindling levels of testosterone or something. Apparently some women think when you're less of a man, you're sexy.

Webster's defines these women as "lesbians".

I kid. I kid.

But I've never been put in the position of having a co-worker or friend show up with the piece on his head, so I just don't know the social etiquette behind such a move.

I guess it's completely possible for this guy to only wear his piece when he's around his singles club.

The reason I say this is because that piece transformed the guy from a drooling gawking loser at a bar to Joe Singlesclub.

He was disco dancing, thrusting his finger in the air like John Travolta.

That's something the combover version would have never done.

He even got involved in the soul train, thrusting his hips down the middle of the aisle as all the ladies swooned and thought "That hairy, gold-chain-adorned beast could be MINE if I played my cards right tonight!"

I was the first to leave the party the other night as the rest stayed around the lady's house to eat breakfast and desperately try to hook up with each other to start the new year off right.

I have no idea if Captain Furball got laid or not.

Which ... ewwww ... what if the piece came off during some particularly rowdy sex?

He's on top of the lady, gold chain swinging hard against his chest, grunting, sweating and occasionally thrusting his finger in the air like John Travolta to assure you that ... yes ... you're in bed with the King of the Soul Train.

And while he's pleasuring his woman, the hair starts to slide from the sweat ... first over his forehead, then into his eyes.

He quickly stops his bruise-inducing crotch thrusting in order to put the piece back in place.

But to the woman's horror, the piece slips off his head and lands square in her face.


The jig is up, Stanley!

You're back to being the thinning hair schlub in one single thrust!

And your new lady friend is going to email all the other single women in the club to tell them her tale.

And at the next get-together (February 26th with guest DJ Uncle Bob), all the ladies will be teasing their hair extra big for the evening to silently mock you!


That's why I stick with the bald spot, thank you.

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