I apologize for this "p.s." of self-absorption, but this needed to be added. My friend, Justin (a.k.a. The Bug, a professional wrestler in the independent circuit), just sent me a very perfect comment regarding my comedy face in the photo for the New York Post. He said, "are you posing for a velvet hobo painting?"

I have to admit, the similarity is remarkable:

Don't I look like someone who just ate some shoe leather, and then hopped a freight train to Whistler's Junction?

[Weirder still, my head shot expression is even more similar to this hobo painting. The only difference is, in my head shot my tears are not painted on, but my beard obviously is.]

Also, apropos of nothing, you know how sometimes you put 75 cents into the vending machine because you've made a bargain with yourself where you get to eat a two-pack of Drake's Cakes Ring-Dings, and your conscience gets to take a nice, long nap? Well, did you know that when you select "E8" and the petroleum-greasy robot-made cupcakes drop from their perch, that soft THUD you hear when they hit the Access Reach Tray™ is the same thud your self-esteem makes when it drops out of your soul? WELL IT IS.