Skadi, Norse God of Winter, Gets “Do-over”

ASGARD—After lengthy negotiations over the weekend, Skadi – divine ruler of Earth’s frozen reaches – has been granted another chance at summoning snow and ice to produce, per Odin’s decree, “something better than this half-assed winter.”

Loki, Wizard of Lies and the chief god’s diplomatic envoy, confirmed the arrangement on Tuesday. “Nobody was happy with Skadi’s initial efforts,” Loki said. “Least of all Odin.”

Across much of the Northern Hemisphere, the months of December to March were characterized by warmer than average temperatures, as well as a lack of snowfall.

“On March 8, it was 77 degrees in Boston,” Loki said. “Don’t get me wrong: like all randy Norse deities, I savor my first glimpse of pink chambray draped over winter-pale human thighs. But early March? What the actual fuck?”

According to another source within his retinue, Odin was particularly miffed at media coverage chalking up the warm temperatures to anthropogenic climate change.

The anonymous demigod explained: “If he’d seen one more Mother Jones think-piece attributing the heat to something as silly as carbon emissions, rather than the whims of omnipotent gods in iron helmets, Odin would have flipped out.”

The impact of the weekend’s deal was immediately evident, with New England experiencing a series of freak April snowfalls, followed by a plunge in temperatures.

“Finally, Skadi’s got his head in the game,” Loki said.

10751442_06385ad711_z[Skadi, bringing the motherfucking pain to this daffodil]

Loki may have been referring to the rumors swirling around Skadi’s whereabouts during the key months of January and February.

“Legend holds that the guy dwells within eternally frozen mountaintops,” the anonymous source said. “So what’s with the monkey business in South Beach?”

Until recently, numerous Miami residents reported seeing a beefy, bearded slab of raw Teutonic force lounging on area beaches. “He looked to be about 8-foot 4,” said one woman. “But I was blinded by his divine aura and the flash of his ice axe in the noon sun.”

“It’s hard to say if it was actually Skadi,” the woman continued. “Or just Viggo Mortensen.”

Another resident says she heard the fellow’s sonorous voice. “Ya, he talked to me and every other girl in a bikini,” she said, “offering free rides on his ‘trusty long-haired yak.’”

Freya, Goddess of Beauty and Fertility, mused on the rumors. “Skadi was always a bit of a cad,” she said. “But it’s hard to consummate your desires when you’re languishing in obscurity among the glaciated wastes.”

ullr[Skadi, like ‘What now?’]

According to Idun, Goddess of Spring and Eternal Youth, things changed a year ago, during the winter of 2015. “With the record snowfall and his ruthless exercise of the polar vortex, Skadi got a lot of press,” she said.

Freya elaborated: “He started to hang with Thor and the other A-listers, who let him tag along on their odysseys of seduction in the human realm.” She absently scratched behind the ears of her boar, Hildisvíni. “I guess it all went to his head.”

In compliance with his pact with Odin, Skadi could not be reached for comment.

Odin pointed his spear northward and noted: “That guy better be standing tits deep in an icy crevasse, unleashing Arctic fury on some hapless populace.”

On Tuesday, there was still some dispute over the details of the new seasonal arrangement. In particular, it was unclear whether Skadi’s do-over would reverse the forward march of time, allowing other beings – divine or otherwise – an opportunity to correct their own royal fuck-ups.

“We’ve fielded a bunch of inquiries about this,” Loki said. “Mostly faithless husbands, hard-luck gamblers, that sort of thing.”

“But also one hoarse, out-of-breath call from the office of Governor Chris Christie.”

chris-christie-donald-trump

Cold: Why I Won’t Be Celebrating Spring Just Yet

sneeze-04Daylight savings may have docked an hour from their sleep, but the Gloucesterites who thronged Stacy Boulevard on Sunday were in fine spirits. Cousins hugged; neighbors shook hands; even perfect strangers leaned in close to chirpily observe, “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” It was as though the entire city had survived a harrowing plane flight together—one where oxygen masks deploy and grown men whimper—and now, dazed and giddy, the passengers were congratulating one another on their luck.

In this case, the danger averted was meteorological, rather than aeronautical. Notwithstanding a blustery weekend or two, Gloucester has landed safely in mid-March with a fraction of its average snowfall—and its first 70-degree day already in the books. But the city’s collective sigh of relief assumes that snow and ice are the worst, most treacherous features of winter.

As a germophobe of the highest order, I know better. And, frankly, I found the scene on the Boulevard appalling. Was I the only one who spent the morning over coffee, a Danish, and the CDC’s weekly influenza map? Did no else realize skin-to-skin contact is the surest transmission route for the human coronavirus? In my mind, the city’s touchy-feely celebrations were not only premature, but also likely to prolong our misery.

usmap09[My web browser’s home page]

Because what the winter of 2016 lacked in ice, it has made up for in communicable disease. My next-door neighbor—a man generally too busy being handsome and talented to get sick—was recently stricken with pneumonia. His skin now hangs pale and slack over prominent cheekbones, and he hasn’t the energy to continue carving that marble bust of his daughter for her sixth birthday. On Friday another local friend woke up, yawned painfully, and discovered that his entire household had contracted strep throat. Since then, he has also learned:

  1. Harvard Pilgrim does not offer a ‘fourth one’s free’ deal on prescriptions of amoxicillin.
  2. Rather than keeping up with precise dosing schedules, it’s simpler just to distribute pills around the house in glass candy dishes.

As a schoolteacher, I’m on the front lines of every cold and flu season. Lacking immunity and the faintest regard for hygiene, children are the hardest-hit among us. This winter, I’ve found myself discussing poetry with half-empty classrooms. I exhausted my annual allotment of Kleenex boxes in February. And although I haven’t kept precise epidemiological records, I’ve noticed a surge in the volume of mucus left behind on my desktops, stranded and quivering like beached jellyfish. This is bad news for the rest of us, the caregivers and parents, who must herd damp tissues and administer rectal thermometers.

cimg0220-1[Worse for desks than your standard penis doodle]

I haven’t always been so fearful of viruses and bacteria. As a toddler, I lolled in every available sandbox, snacking on whatever bits and bobs I could grasp between my thumb and forefinger. As a teen, I rarely turned down a sip from a communal Budweiser. But things changed in February of 2002, during my junior year at Dartmouth College, when an epidemic of bacterial conjunctivitis swept campus. This wasn’t your garden variety pink eye. Victims of this particular strain discovered their condition as soon as they awakened, terrifyingly conscious but unable to open their eyes without the aid of a flat-head screwdriver. For the next three to five days, they shambled around campus in rarely-worn eyeglasses, their scarlet eyelids issuing a fluid as viscous and yellow as pine sap. Classmates recoiled, and friends treated them with the same compassion they might offer a smallpox blanket. As painful as the inflammation was, we students generally agreed that—aesthetically—it was better to suffer a bilateral case. Those with a single afflicted eye took on the lurid, asymmetric appearance of certain Picasso portraits.

06379b2ed6130eb556b92acfdd2dd992[Nothing a little bacitracin can’t handle]

After a few weeks, the outbreak got so bad that it drew the attention of the national media and the Centers for Disease Control, whose agents descended upon tiny Hanover to swab our eyelids with Q-tips. Long lines formed at the doors of cafeterias, where stern women in lab coats demonstrated proper hand-washing technique. Desperate, we complied, which meant preparing to handle a peanut butter sandwich as though it were the still-beating heart of a transplant patient. Yet their efforts accomplished little. The pink eye abated only when spring break intervened and we all left campus.

The following winter, an article in the New England Journal of Medicine estimated the total number of cases in Dartmouth’s Great Pink Eye Epidemic: over 1000, on a campus with a population smaller than Rockport’s. Of this 1000, I personally accounted for no fewer than five, with each bout flaring up a few days apart. After my third case, I refused to leave my dorm room except for three obligations: attending class, going to work, and restocking my mini-fridge with Magic Hat. “Most likely,” my doctor told me over the phone, “you’re re-infecting yourself.” I pondered this, imagining how I must have absently rubbed an eye with some contaminated item. For a moment, I considered wearing an upside-down lampshade, like a sad, post-surgical terrier. After the fifth case, I was prepared to light a torch and treat all my worldly possessions to the full Velveteen Rabbit.

velveteen[You’re dead to me.]

Since then, my germophobia has settled into a way of life. It rarely keeps me from doing things and going places, but I do confess to taking elaborate precautions and maintaining a vigilance that would make Louis Pasteur proud. Most of all, I continue to make a point of washing up before handling anything I’ll eat raw. If I so much as open the refrigerator after peeling an orange, I’ll scrub my hands once again. Because I do a great deal of eating, my hands remain forever chapped and red, as though they’re ladles I use to serve boiling pots of chili.

Shopping for food is sometimes a vexing experience. If I’m in the produce department and I overhear a teenaged employee sneeze, I’ll promptly decamp for another store. I’m unable to take the risk that, at some point during her shift, a tissue was out of reach—and she improvised with the broad leaf of my Swiss chard. Not long ago, I had a remarkable experience at a grocery store that will remain nameless. Ready to check out, I had unloaded my basket onto the conveyor belt and stood in line, pretending to ignore the headlines on the cover of Us Weekly. The cashier was a young fellow whose beefy thumb pierced the cellophane covering the final item in the order ahead of mine: a value pack of Perdue boneless chicken breasts. When the cashier lifted and tilted the Styrofoam, it left behind a glistening slug’s trail. Briefly, the boy and I made eye contact. He looked down at his fingertips, from which dangled strands of chicken slime, like bunting at a party whose guest of honor is diarrhea. The cashier looked back up at me. Then, to no one in particular, he called out: “Can I get a squirt of Purell?” I stood there, paralyzed, calculating the monetary value of my groceries and the likelihood they’d have to be discarded. At length, the boy shrugged and merely wiped his hands on the shirt stretched taut across his belly. Then he asked: “How are you today, sir?”

Often, I marvel at others’ apparent appetite for germs. Recently, I was standing in line at my favorite fishmonger, and I noticed a shallow bowl of those pastel ‘conversation hearts’ on the counter. It was well after Valentine’s Day, long enough for the candy to have accumulated the uric tang of ripe haddock, not to mention an array of microbes. Yet here was a well-dressed woman rooting through them with manicured fingers. “Be Mine?” Nope. “Kiss Me?” Nuh-uh. “True Love.” Pass. “Hep A?” Yes, please! If she lived, I assumed her next meal would be a burrito at an area Chipotle, where, while she waited, she’d lick the length of the stainless steel prep surface.

[Again? Guess I’ll have to stop by my local cruise ship.]

It’s easy for me to spot my fellow germophobes, and I’m always on the look-out for new techniques. For instance, there is the fit older woman at the MAC, who drapes a plastic bag over the spot where her delicate neck meets the squat bar. And it’s never been a mystery to me why paper towels often collect in a mound beside the doors of public restrooms. These are hiking cairns for germophobes. We grasp the handle, drop the towel, and mark our passage—finding validation in the knowledge that others have deemed the space just as squalid as we have.

Whether it’s my habits or my schoolteacher’s superhuman immune system, I don’t get sick much anymore. But when I do, the viruses—spurned and thwarted for so long—really make themselves at home. It’s like the video footage of ordinary Libyans who, after decades of tyranny, streamed into the travertine palaces of Muammar Gaddafi, overturning vases and relieving themselves on his Oriental rugs. In fact, I’m just getting over my first cold in ages, which for ten days rendered me a feverish, hacking mess. I was at my lowest on the day of the Massachusetts primary, but I managed to crawl out of bed and hobble to my polling station just up the block. On my way out, I spotted a small group holding signs for Donald Trump. And so I performed my second civic duty of the day: stopping by for introductions and long, moist handshakes.

But when it comes to exposing others to my germs, I normally try to follow the Golden Rule. So while I’ve ended my self-imposed quarantine from my wife, it’ll take some time to go over every inch of our apartment with a sponge and a 2% bleach solution. Perhaps when I’m done, the weekly flu statistics will have declined—and I’ll be ready to join the end-of-winter celebrations. I’ll be the one smiling and waving my chapped hands, all from a safe, sanitary distance.

Hot Take on Gloucester Issues by Josh Turiel

Occasionally we look to FOC (friend of Clam) Josh Turiel for “Over the Bridge” perspective. That he gives it from Salem, a place demonstrably crazier than Gloucester, just makes it better. But Josh is sane. Sorta. Anyway, here’s his hot take on some of our goings on.

As the Clam’s Official Actual Elected Politician (City Councillor in Salem, MA, and current Council President), I am often asked to comment and lend the Clam insights on issues local and national. Having gone through the election process several times and worked for a number of other candidates for office, I can bring some of that perspective to events going on, and candidates for office.

The first thing I’ll opine on for the benefit of the Gloucester audience is this. When I heard about the Soones Court plan, my first instinct was to say “this is a joke, right?” I mean, I live in Salem. We have plenty of controversial projects here in this community, mostly projects that are brownfield re-use where people are justifiably worried about density and traffic issues, and possible remediation risks.

With all that given, nobody thus far has proposed building a SUBDIVISION ON THE FREAKING OCEAN. What homes in Salem we do have balanced on the ocean are in places that at least are somewhat sheltered in our harbor, and aren’t directly exposed to the Atlantic. If there was actual land to build on perhaps this would be different, but fortunately it looks like you guys were able to shoot that bit of idiocy down. Good on you.

Because the old saying “they aren’t making real estate anymore”? It applies doubly to the seawall. That’s going away a little bit farther, even.

I’ve also been asked a lot about the election process and the presidential campaign. Well, I’m arguably the closest thing to a conservative in Clammedia Tower (as I may have been the only non-Sanders supporter on the vast payroll). That said, even with that I’m still a Democrat. Registered and everything. Not one of those “unenrolled” that dominate Massachusetts and much of the country.

So I understand, a little bit, what the complicated rules are that are used to select a Presidential nominee. The Democrats and Republicans have slightly different rules. The Democrats once nominated Jimmy Carter, and he won the Presidency. This made a lot of Democrats very unhappy, so they changed the rules to make it a lot tougher to nominate Jimmy Carter ever again. Basically, they created a big class of free agent delegates that amount to about 20% of the total delegates to national convention. They’re called “Superdelegates”, because they have the power to totally ignore the electorate and vote for whomever they damn well please.

And those “Superdelegates” are the Professional Political Class of the Democratic party. They’re elected officials (Congressmen, Senators, Governors, other state constitutional officers) and key party leaders (senior party directors and officials). The idea is that they’ll generally back whomever the preferred candidate is of the party mainstream and make sure that the rabble doesn’t win.

In reality, even though they pledge to the party favorite, often early, if that candidate goes south in a hurry (like, for instance, happened to Clinton in 2008), they fold like a cheap suit and switch to whomever has the momentum.

The problem for those Feeling the Bern, though, is that many of the key primaries after this point are not “Open” primaries, in which anyone can vote. And Sanders’ support has come very much from unenrolled voters and voters who come from outside that party structure. And the Democratic party so far hasn’t wavered nearly as much as they normally do. Between proportional delegate awarding and closed primaries, I go on record for Clam purposes as saying that Sanders is likely toast by the beginning of April. Sorry.

I loves me some Bernie, I just don’t see him winning a Democratic Party nomination. Because unlike the Republicans, the Democrats know how to stack the deck properly.

The Republicans have a different system. They gather the most offensive people they can generate and let them slug it out

uninteligble yelling

while following the strategy of appealing to the farthest right segment of their base they can – because that’s a proven way of getting the nomination. After doing so, the nominee then tries to tack as close to the center as they can in the hopes of getting normal Americans to forget the promises they made and vote for them.

In every election since 1992 (except for 2004), that’s failed, but it gets people nominated. The other custom in the Republican party is that the runner-up for the nomination is usually the front-runner for the next time out.

This year, that failed because of the orange-tinted sentient wig of spite that detonated onto the electorate this year with a splat, namely He, Trump. After eight years of unbelievably polarized rhetoric painting a utterly milquetoast black man as a Deadly Muslim Kenyan Socialist who WANTS TO TAKE YOUR GUNS (and whose signature accomplishment has been to make everyone buy health insurance) many disaffected members of the Republican base were ready to thrust their right arms in the air and pledge support to a vaguely authoritarian reality TV star.

Donald Trump supporter Birgitt Peterson of Yorkville, Ill., argues with protesters outside the UIC Pavilion after the cancelled rally for the Republican presidential candidate in Chicago on Friday, March 11, 2016. (E. Jason Wambsgans/Chicago Tribune/TNS via Getty Images)

Donald Trump supporter Birgitt Peterson of Yorkville, Ill., argues with protesters outside the UIC Pavilion after the cancelled rally for the Republican presidential candidate in Chicago on Friday, March 11, 2016. (E. Jason Wambsgans/Chicago Tribune/TNS via Getty Images)

Since the opponents that have survived against him so far are reduced to a Canadian religious zealot who likes to pull wings off flies and is considered the most hated man in Washington, a youthful helium balloon from Florida, and a vaguely polite, friendly right-wing patron of the Reformed Church of the Balanced Budget, the Republicans are now hoping that they can spread disorder and chaos to the point where they go into their July convention with no nominee.

And then they would have to try and bring in a Great White Hope to save the party. The likeliest person to return in that scenario would be Willard (Mitt) Romney – you hated him in 2012, but much like Bullwinkle, “This time for sure!”. The other option considered by GOP elders was digging up the corpse of Ronald Reagan, but have you seen Reagan’s actual positions? Even dead, he’s not conservative enough for this bunch. Outside of the whole Supply-Side economics horsecrap Reagan’s pretty much left of John Kasich. And he made deals with Democrats that settled for half a loaf All. The. Time.

Ultimately, we think the GOP will splinter into two or three different parties. Maybe this year, maybe not for another cycle or so. They’re getting close. But after this election, the Cape Ann GOP will have to decide whether to just officially re-dub themselves the Cape Ann Tea Party or not. I’m thinking they rebrand. But this year, they’ll be lined up solidly behind He, Trump, instead of whining about how Ted Cruz just really isn’t conservative enough for Cape Ann.

Anyhow, there is more to this battle that will come later, and the Clam will, in our inimitable fashion, weigh in on it.

Back in Cape Ann, the affordable housing project I wrote about last fall? Why in sweet heaven is this not done yet? It’s a rehab of a downtown property that will bring people living in your downtown. Trust me. This happened in Salem. It works out well for you in the end. There will be more traffic, at least a little bit more. That’s cool, you also get people living there who will shop, eat, and walk the downtown – making it look busier and more successful and in turn drawing out still more people to Gloucester’s newly cooler and hipper downtown. Yes, these are “affordable” units. It still works. Really.

There’s plenty more to weigh in on over the next few months and Your Faithful Clam will bring it all to you, complete with occasional insight. This is our first Presidential campaign as a active mollusk and we hope to help the region bumble through it as best we can. Think of it as a warmup for the local elections that we will again cover next year – and that ALL OF YOU SHOULD VOTE IN FOR CHRISSAKES.

A List of the 20 Best Names of Registered Presidential Candidates

progoat

Guess what, nerds? Turns out the Federal Election Commission’s website has a list of all individuals who submitted Statements of Candidacy to be considered for the job of President of the good ol’ USA. (America! Fireworks! Eagle!) Yes, my friends, each one of these is registered to get YOUR vote this November. Here’s a list of potential nominees we totally could have gotten instead of Ted Cruz, Zodiac Killer:

  1. Osama Bin Liftin
  2. Dat Phat A$$
  3. Nostalgia Critic
  4. Disco Daddy
  5. Tipa Dis Dick
  6. Tronald Dump
  7. Alexander “Soy Sauce and Taters” Gordh (Prohibition Party)
  8. Lucille Hamster
  9. Fredrickson Asshat Kazoo
  10. Doctor Pepper
  11. Tarquin Poontang Ole Biscuit Barrel 
  12. Dick Your Mom Pound
  13. Ghost of Macho Man Randy Savage
  14. Seattle Seachickens Suck
  15. Left Shark
  16. Butt Stuff
  17. Ponzi Schemes Suck 
  18. Luther T, The Merciless Warlord Stock
  19. Why Not Zoidberg
  20. Carly Fiorina

Clamsumer Reports: What the Eff is the Deal with the Dollar Shave Club?

Over the past few months I have received suggestions from people whom I otherwise consider sensible to join the “Dollar Shave Club.” You know, this thing:

Yes, hilarious video. Thanks shavebro, I am thoroughly entertained. I’m sure you and your buds had a great time putting this business idea together in between keg stands, but before I lay down my hard-earned cash, does ordering my razor blades by mail even make sense? Seems like we should clamvestigate, donnit? To the Clammobile!

Yes, I mean my Subaru. No, I don’t know where we’re going. OK, let’s just go back inside and look at the Internet…Sorry.

Here are the three “deals” offered by Dollar Shave Club according to their webzone:

 

THE HUMBLE TWIN

Free handle

Five 3-blade cartridges per month

1$/month plus $2 shipping and handling which when added together becomes the symbol known to mathematicians as “3” meaning I have to actually pay $3 dollars per month.

THE 4X

Free handle

Five 3-blade cartridges a month

$6/month (ships free)

EXECUTIVE PLAN

Free handle

Four 6-Blade cartridges per month

$9/month (ships free)

Wow. What a deal! In comparison, for $7.99 a month you can get access to over 13,000 titles on Nexflix and for $10 a month access to over 20 million songs on Spotify (but no Taylor Swift- feature or bug? Discuss). I’m just not feeling the same  greenfield thrill with the razor plan for some reason, but maybe that’s just my digital to physical bias. I’m sure it’s a great value. So let’s compare to the plan I use:

The Market Basket Shave Club for Men and Anyone Else Who Shaves A Lot We Don’t Judge

$2.79 handle

$1.49/Package of five 3-blade razors sitting on a shelf whenever I want them three miles from my house

Shipping is free because I’m already there buying Cheetos and pushing little old ladies out of the way for the day-old baked goods

Weird. A major purchaser like a grocery store seems to be able to offer a better price than an online buying club.

It looks like a 75-store discount retailer with multiple distribution centers somehow offers a better price than some internet dude. Whoa if true!

Hmm. It would seem I’ve already paid off my investment in the handle, which comes with 2 cartridges, in less than eight weeks. But, come now. Three blades? What kind of man in the 21st century only uses a three-blade razor? It’s akin to saying, “leave me a voicemail” or faxing a Chinese food order over to Midori’s. Actually, that would be pretty funny to see if they even got it, considering they still have a fax # on their menu (side note: How long until it’s hipster to fax stuff? Soon, right?)

So let’s compare plan “C” of the Dollar Shave Club, their “Executive” plan to the high-end plan at The Basket. Let’s call it the:

Shave Club For Guys Who Could Probably Shop at Stop and Shop but Refuse to Put on Actual Pants

$4.39 handle- comes with 2 cartridges of six blade razors

$4.29 per-package with 4 cartridges each.

This is nowhere near $9/month. In fact, it’s twenty bucks cheaper per year than Dollar Shave’s four blade option. And the quality of the MB and Dollar Shave razors seem not only equivalent, but the exact same equipment- I believe the same unit manufactured in Korea by the Dorco corporation of Seocho-dong, Korea. Yes, you read that right: Dorko of Seocho-dong. Magnificent.  

So these foreign manufactures will just sell their products to anybody? How is that even legal?

So these foreign manufactures will just sell their products to anybody? How is that even legal?

Thus if you opt for the “executive” plan you get the privilege of paying over $50 more for the exact same stuff. I guess that is a lot like many “executives” I’ve worked with in the past, spending 1/3 more than necessary because someone made a flashy video. Maybe they could develop a “C-Suite plan” where the razors are endorsed by famous golfers and they advertise in airports next to the expensive watches and “personal wealth managers.” They could charge five times more, would be tax-free and foreign workers would do the actual shaving for pennies on the dollar. SOCIAL COMMENTARY IN THE SHAVING POST- YEAH DAWG!

Look, I understood the concept of wanting access to cheap razors back when the pricing cabal of Schick and Gillette  were doing that shitty thing of selling you a handle for three dollars and then charging 11 dollars per package for the blades. Remember when they used to lock them behind the glass at CVS alongside the Sudafed? You could steal either one and then go on to resell the phenylephrine to lowlife meth producers or the blades to the even lower-life kind of person who fences razor blades. Where are you in the criminal hierarchy when you deal in hot disposable grooming products? Do you get the lamest underworld nickname ever like “IN-Grone” or “Folik-L”?

Also by just purchasing razors at the grocery store when I need them I can manage demand. If I have a high need for shaving, say I’m trying to introduce a Bonobo ape to clients as an employee to increase billings, then I’ll need more razors. If I decide to go with the insane wild mountain man look so big with the Leonardos these days, then I’ll need fewer. And thanks to the “Going to Market Basket whenever I feel like it because there is free coffee and Anna in the bakery is cool” system, I can let the demand decide how often I purchase razors not just having them mailed to me on some kind of schedule with no adjustability for my natural or desired hirsuteitude.

Conclusion: Someone help me out here, what am I getting for the extra four dollars a month ahead of the MB plan? I’m perplexed by this whole category, to be honest. What is the benefit of doing this by mail? Not cost, as shown. I’m in Market Basket about once a week anyway, so it’s not access. Do I just do what bros online tell me to do, like wear Birkenstocks and a backwards visor with Vineyard Vines shorts? (Answer: I do not) Is there some critical math or benefit I’m missing? Can I start the “Dorko Dong Shave Club?” and compete with the guys just by buying razors at the Basket and selling them behind the Maplewood 7/11 after having the the word “STUBBL” tattooed on my abdomen in those impossible to read cursive letters?

REALLY, WHY DOES THIS BUSINESS EXIST, I’M AT A TOTAL LOSS.