PSA for all my lady friends.

Alright ladies, let's stop beating around the bush. I mean, I'm as big a fan of women going au naturale as the next guy. It's your body, YOU do what you want to do. Ya know, you wanna experiment with drugs, go right ahead. You wanna put it on display and slide up and down a pole? Heck, who am I to tell you otherwise? You don't feel like shaving your legs, I'm OK with that. Hell, you can even let chia pets sprout out of your arm. I'm. OK. With. That. But the line's gotta be drawn somewhere and much like the good Captain Picard said oh so long ago, "The line must be drawn HE-YAH!" Extreme facial hair.

If you've seen me recently or not so recently, you know I'm a bit on the scruffy side. Luckily I'm a guy and I can look as bummy as I want and that's ok. This is America: home of the double Whopper and the double standard. But let's not delve into the deep dark depths of the abyss which is Achan. Not just yet. Oh, no, we still have an ever mounting army of fuzzy faced females we gotta put to bed before we even THINK about climbing aboard the Achan train. Over the past two days I have seen 3 woman with more facial hair than me. This ratio would be unacceptable even to the French.

The first wolf lady I encountered on my way home from dropping a friend off way the fuck off in Norristown. Sorry. You're gonna have to ignore the tone on that last one, it's just that when you drive for like a bagillion miles and it's rush hour and hot, the last thing you want to see is the wolf woman on your trip. I approached the toll and honestly thought I would howl and ask her if she happened to have ever seen or maybe even starred in a lil' 80s flick by the name of Teen Wolf. Instead I kind of gave/tossed my buck twenty-five at here as I drove through. I didn't really feel like sticking around as I had no silver bullets and she looked semi-underfed.

Fuzzy faced female number two I ran into on the way into work today. There were some people doing last minute cleaning and I must say, I might actually give her a pass since the staff spent the first five minutes of the day trying to decide whether or not she was actually a she. We decided to go the democratic route and the majority ruled: female. After which it was unanimously decided that she was one hairy faced female.

The last leg of my odyssey took place on the El on my way home. There was a lady who got on the train (and this one I knew right away to be a lady because she had, like, triple M breast that she was carrying around in a basket because someone told her that bras were out of style. Anyway, this lady was wearing a Dr. J shirt. Maybe you've seen the picture: he's smiling and facing the camera with one hand placed contemplatively on his chin. In this particular flick, the good doctor is sporting a fresh goatee. I looked from the shirt to the lady's face to the shirt and back again before concluding that she must be the world's biggest Julius Erving fan or had been on the losing end of the world's worst bet. Said lady was rockin' (yeah, we're bring 'rockin' back, them other slang words better watch their backs) the exact same style of facial hair as Dr. J. I tried to avoid staring, but of course, as with any good train wreck I kept glancing, which caused her to think I was interested, which caused me to get off two stops early and walk home.

OK. I'm bored of this silly little thing now. Plus the rant's basically over. And it's Thursday, so there's good TV on NBC again. Weird, huh? Seacrest OUT!