Recently, I found myself embroiled in a rather hairy situation. While my wife, Charlotte, and I were cleaning up after dinner, I was waxing poetic about how pleased I’ve been with the beard I’ve managed to grow, just one-third of the way through Movember.
For those of you unfamiliar with the hirsute tour de force that is Mr. Riley, Jeff and I worked together for many years as editors at Pearson Education prior to him retiring to a life of self-employment, Cheerwine and Bojangles Chicken-n-Biscuits somewhere in the uncivilized reaches of North Carolina. His wit, rakish good looks, and Sasquatch-like hairiness are known far and wide.
Now, I wouldn’t normally throw a friend under the bus like this, but when my bride called into question the manliness of my scruff by invoking the ferocity of the Riley beard, I had to think fast. And besides, he lives roughly 660 miles away. I didn’t figure any bent feelings he might have would survive a car ride that long. By the time he got here, I was banking that he’d have forgotten why he wanted to bludgeon me with a tin of body wax, and we’d just go have some beers talk about why I am his funniest friend or something.
So, without missing a beat, I said, “Well, Jeff Riley’s knuckle hair could jump up and take my beard’s lunch money. So, there’s that.”
With my machismo safely defended, many a laugh were had here in the kitchen at The Kughen Home for the Mentally Divergent while we slogged through the evening dinner cleanup ritual.
Now, if you’ve been reading my blog, then you know that my imagination often runs away with me, as it were. Case in point, many moons ago, I remember sitting across from Jeff in an editorial meeting at Pearson when I noticed that each of his knuckles had what appeared to be a miniature Barry Gibb on them – all of whom looked to be prancing around and singing “Stayin’ Alive” just for me.
Trust me when I tell you that it is exceptionally difficult to maintain any sort of professional decorum when 10 tiny Barry Gibbs are grinding their little white jump-suited bodies through “Stayin’ Alive” while balanced on your friend’s knuckles.
This is the kind of situation that sometimes has led me laughing at inappropriate times and not being able to explain why. As my dearly departed friend, Mark Reddin, used to explain when asked about his oddly-timed and inexplicable bursts of laughter, “It’s just funny shit. You wouldn’t understand.”
I am not without compassion, however. I felt bad about using Jeff’s knuckle forestation as a distraction from talk of my thin beard. Really. I’m not making that up. Well, at least insofar as you know anyway. Ahem.
I mean, there Jeff was, minding his own business there in the wilds of the North Carolina hills—possibly coiffing his back hair—when I threw Mr. Riley and his densely forested knuckles right under the proverbial bus.
Surely, he understands that I was just jive talkin’…
Be sure to check out Jeff’s Facebook blog, Finding Jeffery. Jeff is one of the funniest people I know. Jeff is quite the funny (and hairy—sorry, I just can’t stop) human.
