Last night, at the B-Side it was pronounced that I had the KING OF ALL MULLETS.

Sadly so, Kelly was correct. When we met, I did indeed have a Camero driving, butt-rockin, hockey playin, tank top wearin, high-fivin, combat-ready mullet.

It earned me the nick name of “Forehead” for a while. Perhaps I’ll dig up the “Big Black Book of Bad Hair” and scan an image.

The “BBBoBH” is the name I’ve given to a large tome-like photo album I have. My parents gave it to my on my 21st birthday… (Half a decade ago?!?)

It was a very touching gift. It isn’t meant to chronicle my terrible hair through out all the various stages of my life. Oh…but it does. I don’t mean to belittle it. It just makes me chuckle.

LE ROI EST MULLET! VIVA LE MULLET!

It’s not every day that you set yourself on fire while standing in line at your local Target store.

It was boot-shopping time. Zeb found an agreeable boot solution. Daks’ shoe issues were unresolved at this point. We decided to leave any way.

During this wonderful excursion into the shopping realm, I had taken up the habit of clicking the lighter in my pocket. Not really clicking it all the way to lit, just fiddling with it.

*Click*

I felt a warm sensation on my hand, and took it out of my pocket. All the hairs on the back of my finger were gone. As I was inspecting my hand, Daks noticed the puffs of smoke coming from my pocket.

Hello. My name is Shawn. I’m an idiot.

Also, as an aside, spending an hour in a Wal-Mart does terrible things to the human psyche.

After said hour, punching little children starts looking like an acceptable remedy to your shopping woes.