The Mole The Merrier

Here’s a little life advice from someone who has no business giving it. 

Every month, my wife and I decide what we are going to spend our money on. Like everyone else, most of our dough is already spent on monthly expenses, but we normally have a little left over for incidentals. 

Maybe we replace the front windows?… Nah. That can wait. 

Maybe we splurge on a dinner with the kids in NYC?… Nah…

Maybe we get a shitload of narcotics and a cheap motel room, and see where the night takes us?… Yes, please. 

We have a finite amount of resources to spend over the finite amount of time we have left spinning around this mortal coil, so we need to prioritize our spending. And knowing full well that not everyone has the same finances and/or priorities that we have, I try not to judge how other people spend their monthly nut. 

That is, until last week. 

Last week I was in a North Carolina Uber and the woman who picked me up was very attractive. Not “flashy attractive” but she had a soft-spoken natural handsomeness that you could tell came with very little effort. I wanna call her a “pretty woman” but Julia Roberts ruined that phrase with her whorish escapades with Richard Gere back in 1990. 

("Thanks for the anal.")

Without asking her any questions, from my backseat observation, I could see that she was doing okay financially… Perhaps her life was in shambles, but the quality of her ride and her overall demeanor exuded that she was doing just fine. And just like us, she probably has to make the same monthly decisions on how she spends her money. 

Here’s where I get judgy. 

Assuming this driver is in her late thirties/early forties, she has made that monthly decision hundreds of times. And every single fucking time, she and her husband opted for the new windows… Or the dinner with their kids… Or the cocaine-filled Travelodge… When they should’ve opted to remove this…

How the fuck can you watch money go out the door for DECADES without carving out a couple of grand at some point to carve the hairy mole off your fucking cheek?

How did she survive the Austin Powers era without knowing that small grassy knoll is the first and last thing everyone notices when they speak to her face-to-face?

Honestly, I started this blog sounding almost romantic when describing her appearance, but summoning up images of that fucking hairy bump has changed my tone from romance to fury. 

As a company, Stoolies recently raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for a dog charity, and people can judge the nobility of that donation if they want. 

Even more recently, we (and by “we,” I mean Dave) raised $1.5 million for a fallen officer’s family… And no one should fucking judge the nobility of that. 

I wonder if we should start selling t-shirts with an adorable cartoon mole in a red circle with a line through it with all proceeds going towards the purchase of a rat to gnaw that disgusting lump off my driver’s face. 

Nah… That wouldn’t work. 

The romantic side of me is back, and will tell you this young lady would probably turn down any such charity because she’s happy with her looks… No matter how imperfect an even-more-imperfect fat fuck like me may find them. 

And the fact that her priorities are in THAT order means she should probably be writing this blog instead of me. 

Take a report. 

-Large