by Lord Edmund Bryll, inventor of Brylcreem

The sudden appearance on this very Internet site of news and commentary, not to say erudition, of one Ingvar Jævel, a foreign national of Norwegian origins, or so he would lead us to believe, provides me with the welcome opportunity to hold forth on a subject of grave importance to me, given my strong moral character and not unrelated fondness for asserting my moral superiority in such a manner as I see fit at any given place and time. Right, of course.

Now, if you will allow me a modicum of artistic license in service to the argument I am about to make, by which allowance I hope to convey the particular strength of feeling I harbour toward the subject at hand, I wish to begin by using terminology which may be altogether too strong, not to say shocking, to those among you of more a more sensitive, or, more particularly, feminine nature, in which case I must forcefully suggest you cease reading this missive before I reach the point where I employ the word “fuck”, I offer my most considered and, as I shall explained, well informed opinion that Scandanavians, and in particular those of a Norwegianic persuasion, are fishmongering shit-arses. Yes, quite, hmm.

Now, my assertion, shocking though it may be, particularly if you are unaccustomed to such frank discourse, is of course based upon a wealth of personal experience and, naturally, rather exuberant predjudice. For you see, I, among my many adventures and expeditions, once visited Lapland and the other environs…

Wait, what is this?

…

What the Dickens?

WHA! WHAT!?!?!

PHLEGMINGHAM?

PHLEGMINGHAAAAAAAAM!?!?!

PHLEGMINGHAAAAAAAAM!!!!!

Seems old Rex down there is shitting the bed when it comes to hosting an Open Thread. Shouldn’t surprise anyone, really. When Pascual Perez thinks your shit is messed up, your shit is really messed up.

In my day ballplayers knew the value of a well groomed copse of jawline mane. They also beaned each other like it was their primary means of non-verbal communication. In other words, real men. The most common injury was from tripping over their own enormous nut sacks.

Nowadays ballplayers are peach-fuzz wearing pussies who don’t understand anything that doesn’t give them a reacharound, you dig?

Aw, I shouldn’t be too hard on ol’ Sexy Rexy, I guess. At least he doesn’t smear Bryllcrap in his hair. I don’t think he does, anyway.

Oh, fun fact for you? Otis Nixon’s face? He thought Brylcreem was a facial scrub. That’s all I’m sayin’.

by Reginald Phlegmingham, Duke of Crapping-Upon-Bryllshire

So it’s now almost a month into the new year, and still not a peep from my so-called rival, Lord Edmund Bryll. What is it, Eddie? Too scared to show your face? Hiding out in that skank-infested rub-n-tug place you call a “Gentleman’s Club”? You make me sick.

Let me break it down for you in a way you’ll understand. I am the man. You are not. It’s fucking obvious. Just look at me! I’m throwing close to two inches of glorious cheek wool out there for the whole world to see, and there isn’t a drip of fucking elephant jizz anywhere in the picture. All natural baby, cuz that’s how Reggie rolls that motherfucker.

LLRP. You know it. Ladies Love Reggie P. It’s a fact, and the sooner you come to grips with it, the sooner you can cry it out of your system, Eddie.

Say hi to ‘Dwina for me the next time you stumble home from the Hobo Palace or whatever the fuck you call it. She’ll remember the Phlegmer. Who wouldn’t?

Peace.

Bullshit. One look at that elegant, swanlike neck of his should have been enough to dispel those scurrilous rumours once and for all.

Also, Pete Rose was innocent as the driven snow. The pure, white, betting on baseball and tax-avosion driven snow.

p.s., the last couple of times I mentioned McGwire’s tendency to stuff needles into his butt, somebody in the comments took me to task for not adhering to the principle of “innocent until proven guilty”. I trust that I am now free to mock. Which is good, ‘cuz I’m not great with principles.

Inspired by Reg and Eddie, I have decided to attempt to grow sideburns for the first time. Over the years I’ve had a mustache, and up until November I had a Van Dyke for close to 5 years, but sideburns have always eluded me due to a bit of a bare patch between my hairline and my beardline.

But, having not shaved at all for about 10 days, I decided to give it a go. I shall post pictures if I ever amass sufficient facial foliage to earn Lord Reginald’s respect.

by Reginald Phlegmingham, Duke of Crapping-Upon-Bryllshire

As you can see by my laid back posture, I’m pretty much the man. You don’t get to have sweet-ass jowl-fur like this without practically oozing manly testosterone. Go ask my main dude Chuck Tupper — he knows what I’m talkin’ about.

So maybe I was a little harsh the other day, going off on Lord Eddie’s hair grease. Shit ain’t so bad, really. I’ll even admit to using it once or twice when I was trapped in some podunk rube shanty town and where the local shit-n-snip didn’t carry Murray’s Superior. It’s like Saran Wrap: it’ll do in a pinch when the Trojans are in your other jacket.

Speaking of which: Hey Eddie, did ‘Dwina ever tell you about the closet next to the forward lounge onboard the Queen Mary? No Saran Wrap to be found, my friend. I’m just sayin’, is all.

by Reginald Phlegmingham, Duke of Crapping-Upon-Bryllshire

Why hello there, and an especial hello to all of the ladies out there. How you doin’?

Do you know the secret ingredient to Brylcreem? Well I do. I have to whole damn recipe, right here. Lord Eddie Shittinghimselfinfear doesn’t want you to know this, but what the fuck. Here it is, bitches:

• Vaseline
• Elephant <censored>

A little dab’ll do ya indeed.

A real man doesn’t slather pachyderm seed in his hair, my friends. A real man wouldn’t have even considered the idea. So what are we to make of Lord Eddie’s “invention”? What do you figure was going through his mind when he decided to run that shit through his follicles? Damn.

A real man grows fuckin’ hamsters on his jawline. I know it, you know it, and Lord Eddie knows who the king is. What has two mutton chops and goes through ladies like Tom Cruise goes through midgets? This guy.

Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

by Reginald Phlegmingham, Duke of Crapping-Upon-Bryllshire

You think you and your weak-ass wispy sideburns can go against me and my luxurious facial foliage? Fuck that.

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