An In-Depth Study on the History of Beardism

The human male beard is probably the greatest achievement of Natural Selection since the evolution of the penis. Do you think it's a coincidence that the Grandmaster of Natural Selection, Charles Darwin (above), has a fucking beard? Not likely. As a highly regarded 21st century Pogonologist (that means someone who studies beards retard), and active participant in the Beard Phenomenon, I am probably the most important living authority of Beardism alive.

Beardedness, throughout history, has been associated with many of the highest qualities of human nature; social status, wisdomness, sexual attractiveness, higher quality of personal hygiene, larger capacity to gather and store food, greater chances of deterring a wild animal attack and so forth.


The Ancient Greek Philosophers regarded beard length as discharge from a brain that was overcrowded with smartness, therefore the longer the beard the wiser the man (that's the petrified bust of Socrates With Beard — looks like he wasn't that smart after all). The Germanic Tribes employed the one metre plus beard as the only true indication of whom was male and whom was female. The Vikings stiffened their beards into razor sharp swords with yak spunk and dueled to the death for first pickings of the Yak Spunk Casserole at Christmas dinner.


World's Longest Beards: For thousands of years, the human race has been fine tuning beard maintenance in a bid to bring one closer to The Great Beard In The Sky. The most dedicated have always been the subcontinental Asians, prepared to grow a beard so long and awkward that accidential sleep self strangulation, inadvertent toilet dunkings and death by rapid beard fire are real possibilities.

Barberism: Invented by the Communists in 1715 to stamp out originality. A hideous profession that's sole purpose is planet wide Beard Genocide. As the Holy Scripture of Beardism dictates—handed down hundreds of thousands of years ago from The Great Beard In The Sky to a bearded monkey (the missing link that begain our separation from the Homo Shaven to the Homo Bearded lineage)—that anyone who raises a hand against The Beard in ignorant fear, labelled Pogonophobitis, is a Commie Bastard that needs to be sent to an island and forced to own property.


Here's one of the Bloshie bastards now in his little Commie Conversion Factory. That sinister chair, that salmon shirt; the symbol of all that is unholy where he strips men of their ability to unique thought in a thick creamy lather.


And here's another sick Pinko Commie mutalising his OWN face, so strong is the Clean Faced Commie Dogma in some sectors of society.

You think the 1950—53 Korean War was about political division in a Post WWII environment? That's just Government generated spank off. The war was about Beards. The North Korean Commie Bastards rejected the ideal of the Patchy But Powerful Asian Beard whilst the more intelligent and tougher South Koreans embraced it.




Over the course of history the human Beard has gone through periods of repression and genocide. Numerous anti-female beard campaigns have been raged throughout the ages (and rightly so).


There was the British Government sanctioned Extermination War of the 1830's of the Bearded Bike Bitches of London.


And how can we forget the horrible and cheap, side alley 1900's Moulin Rouge man-lady spin off, Tarpaulin Rouge. The birthplace and eventual deathplace of the eye-gouging please-don't dance. One of the few things the French have ever succeeded at, the gender blurring tarp institution was razed to the ground with every beard in it.


Willie Nelson, another scourge on Beardism and possibly the only person who SHOULD be a clean shaven Commie Pinko. The Vikings almost pulled off the Braid 'N Beard combo but inevitably failed, were turned into Gnomes and sent to live in Middle Earth by The Great Beard In The Sky. What gives YOU the right Willie to publicly disgrace humanity? I mean, won't somebody please think of the children?


Pirate Beards: One of the highest branches in the Beard Tree, Piratism, for the most part, has thrown up some of the finest ever specimens of the Human Race. The combination of dirty hair, wicked puffy clothes, senseless aggression, abstract but manly facial hair, the designation of Wench to address all females and the adoption of living in a terrain not meant for humans. Just look at this mighty pirate child! He is still years from puberty but his beard is grander than most adult males could ever dream of.


But not all pirates got it right. For example, what the fuck IS this guy? A pirate? An Arab tailor? An out of work Chippendale dancer with an inclination to lippy and panda eye makeup now working at The Night Train? This half arsed bearded biatch needs to get some plank action (in a non-backstage Chippendale dancer oil room sense).


Sweet Baby Beard In The Sky! Sacrilegious and then some. Pirates, even the bottom of the barrel ones, are put to shame with this modern day aberration of Piratistic ideals. The Wench Maker has become the Wench. At no point in history EVER did Pirates wear G-Strings, let alone mount their rainbow coloured collections on the wall. Wannabe street sneakers and dumbbell glove combos also never made it into mainstream Pirate Society. And for the record, this obviously transgendered creature has a few genetic hiccups—what's with the T-Rex arms and the Stegosaurus groin head plate? He couldn't sword fight his way out of a paper bag.


Leonardo da Vinci: One of the smartest people ever. Leo had a fucking MASSIVE beard and that is why he was so smart and invented awesome stuff beyond comprehension in his era, like the helicopter, the Chia Pet and Totem Tennis. His beard was so amazing that it actually grew upside his skull and encompassed his whole brilliant head unit.


Teen Wolf: Incorrectly named Wolf, its actual scientific name is Monkey Boy Genetic Throwback. Hair billows from every square inch of skin making it extremely hard to wear any clothes with zips and forever rules out skin tight stone wash jeans. And fuck knows what agonies he has to endure wiping his arse. Whilst generally undesirable, Monkey Boy Genetic Throwbacks can have a few perks like; unbeatable air guitar performance, constant circus work and guaranteed frat party pity sex.


Hippies: Those hippie wankers of the 1960's brought shame and ignorance to Beardism with their fanciful floral vomitscapes and ridiculous ideals of 'peace.' Best case scenario is next time this dude tokes up his beard catches fire, aborts his face (after burning it a bit and breaking his glasses) and seeks asylum in secular society.


And the only thing worse than a hippie, is a body shaving media whore that doesn't even stand for the pathetic Arsetopian principles that real hippies stand for. That looks more like fluff riddled goat shit smeared on your face than a beard bro, lets be honest.


Santa Beard: I have always been an Anti-Santanic man myself and finally I have some concrete photographic evidence to back that opinion up. Sure, he has a fantastic, full creamed, sexy beard but he knows it and he uses it to his own unsavoury ends. He might hand out SOME presents to rich, first world children once annually but if you had half an idea of what crazy shit he did the other 364 days of the year you would rush out this instant and bear trap your chimneys.


Commander Riker—Beard To The Future: The time traveling future-history of the human race documentary, Star Trek The Next Generation, tells us that space will be conquered by the human race and it WILL be done bearded. Make it so!


Bearded Blunders: History has thrown up more variations of the Beard than you could poke your weiner at. Some highly evolved specimens and other outright illegal abominations as illustrated above and below. If you see anyone walking down the street sporting any of these Satanic Facial Combos you have legal authority to kick them in the balls and liberate their beards by fire as an Act of Mercy. No questions asked.







Possibly the most famous Beard of all is that of ancient Carpenter and Top Dog at JC Enterprises, the beardtastic Jesus. I mean, just look at that beard, like baby lambs wool, like a river of black butter, like a pit of bikini clad models wrestling in crude oil. Watch him wave off miniature buildings like he doesn't even WANT them. So strong is his belief in himself, belief in his beard.


And now onto possibly the greatest example of present day Bearded Wonder. Thousands of years of Bearded Selection have lead us to here my friends—the pinnacle of Beardism. I shudder to think of the dizzying new heights Beardedness will reach in generations to come. I think we have just found a new default Windows desktop background image hey? I don't like Diet Coke—I think it tastes like arse—but if some dude like this came into my office with a carton on his shoulder I'd go one for sure (the flames might make me a bit edgy though).


So there you have it. Beardism. Don't you feel more educated now? Stay tuned for my next definitive study of Moustaches, where once again we will discover the origins and eventual mastering of the Mo. In the interim, here is a Mo Snack to satisfy your appetites; Topless Mo Man Clutching Baby Land Dolphin Action.

Southerly Man Odyssey

After the whole Terry Moto Ordeal and subsequent Entrapment, I gave myself two weeks to DO Patagonia = the arse end of South American in both Argentina and Chile. This Pants Shitting photo was taking from the 2 hour plane ride from Puerto Montt to Punta Arenas (both in Chile). A freaky clear skied day apparently and the view looked like this all the way down, total Andes and Glaciar action (although I didn't have a window seat — I had to lean over a pubertising teenager).

Part I:
From Punta Arenas I bused 12 hours to Ushuaia (Argentina) – the world’s southernmost city in the world. Quite cute, wallet raping and seriously fucking cold. I’m talking so cold that if I had a light saber I would have cut open the nearest street dog and crawled inside it Skywalker style just to stay warm.



The accommodation was a bit rustic, I think you will agree — just look at the damn floorboards. My roommate was a bit of a nutbag too — tell me they aren’t the gayest pyjamas you have ever seen. It kind of looks like his claiming the top bunk doesn’t it? I won’t tell you what I did (or how hard I did it) but he ended up taking the bottom bunk.


Had a few bevvies with the riff-raff in the common room. Kind of an exclusive Beard Club was struck up and we talked all things Beardish over a couple of beers and Uno For Cash (loser get's debearded).


Went on some lamo trek in the National Park, after being reamed cash-wise for it of course, and this was about the closest thing to a highlight; a pack of mangy horses.


There was an Irish Pub in Ushuaia too which had nothing Irish about it except this homemade Jameson sign made from the side of a carton and hung from the ceiling. Classic. Accidentally got poleaxed on mixers that night (seriously, it’s half a glass of whiskey and half a glass of coke!)…


and ended up making out with the R2D2 security guard. Make out with me Obi-Won, you’re my only hope.


The following day was Post Mixer Rough to say the least, but fortuitously I had booked a 4 hour boat trip on choppy water to work the hangover off (and in a drunken haze I had agreed to let R2 come. It got very awkward).


Basically what happens is you pay through the arse for a massive boat ride where you see some penguin fellas and see and SMELL some seal dudes. I wasn’t too excited about seeing penguins like all the Northern Hemisphere Fruitcakes as we have them back home. But the shear SIZE of these penguins boggles the mind. All I was trying to do here was see if I could break the egg in half with a roundhouse kick (just to see if I still Have It after all these months sans training). And for some reason the mother freaked out and went for my eyes. All said and done, you want to know what happened? I still Got It. That’s what happened.


There was also an interesting old Dutch man who works half of every year on sailboats and the rest of the year travelling. He was an alcoholic mental and apparently did something so repulsive, if not illegal, that I can’t mention it on this family safe blog. You’ll have to ask me about it in person one day.

Then on to Part II: El Calafate and some large icy thing...




Caught a bus at 5am after one hour sleep for 17 hours north to El Calafate to see this — the Perito Moreno Glaciar. Apparently, as large and impressive as it looked, with an average height of 74 metres above the water, it goes for another 100 metres under the water!


This is probably the most intensely tantalizing photo I have ever seen. What is going on? Who the hell are they? Why the fuck is it pinned up randomly in a bus terminal? So many questions, so few answers. It’s just creepy, but I felt compelled to document it.


Part III: Torres del Paine – a five day trek in one of the world's most celebrated parks. I’m not a qualified geologist but as far as I am aware Torres del Paine was formed when a giant underground Lava Monster lost a staring match with an Evil Wizard and was turned into stone some 200 years ago. Then it was sucked above ground 2 weeks later when Jupiter passed in between the orbits of Earth and the Moon. Pigeons and sediment eating llamas ate all the tasty stuff around it leaving the tower like Lava Monster carcass we see today. I hooked up with English Adam and Colombian Carmilo that I met in at the hostel in Ushuaia and together we trekked. It is known for it’s extreme beauty and diversity of climates in a small area. It is also known for it’s extreme unpredictability and face punching ferocity.






This is the Grey Glaciar, bigger but less famous than the Perito Moreno one. But unlike Moreno, there weren't 15,000 tourists dry humping you up against the rail while you tried to soak in its awesomeness in amongst every annoying accent in the Foreigner Rainbow.


That's not a curvy growing tree amigos, that's at least 150kmph winds blowing out of control at a seconds notice before fucking off as fast as it came. And if it gets hold of your backpack then all you can do is scream like a girl and try and protect you face, cause you are going down.


Not a bad photo of Beard and Mountain you say? I am actually not even standing but attempting to lie face down on the ground. If I had dirty backpacker rastas and wasn't wearing brown paint as a t-shirt you would probably see it.


That's what I'm talking about! It actually lifts pebbles and throws them at you. That wind also stole my fucking hat on the last day to consume higher up in the mountains.


Three men. Three tents. Sharing is for children and peasants. Mine is that lame little yellow one in the middle that is roughly the size of a coffin with no outer fly or functioning zippers. And it failed me on the last night, but thank Van Halen it was the last night. Rain and snow leaked into the tent, soaking everything including the sleeping bag. Which accounts for why I felt so cold trying to sleep — inside the bag I was wearing; pants, thermal socks, long sleeve top under t-shirt combo, thermal zip up jacket, wind breaker jacket, scarf, beanie and gloves and I was still fucking cold.


Trekkers Brew; pour in a good couple 'a thumbs of Jack Daniels, turn you head for a sec while it fills with dirt and insects and enjoy.


Suspending Anti Rodent Food Storage Device. If you leave food in your tent they WILL chew through it and feast millimetres from your resting body. This device pretty much worked. The little fuckers managed to jump from the tree onto the bags and penetrate into some trail mix but nothing more.


After a hard days trek a man just wants to eat something hearty and have a dirt and insect laden whisky. I can still remember this meal, possibly the greatest thing I have ever eaten and the other lads agreed. PASTA and BOLOGNAISE and RICE and TUNA, together at last.


Mother Nature's heavy ham fisties seem to be following me like moths to the flame, like flies to a stool, like nerds to World of Warcraft.



Last morning we got up at dawn's crack (that's Colombian Carmilo above) and climbed up higher to this lookout point which is apparently the best view of the famous Torres (towers) in the park. They are supposed to get struck with sunlight and glow bright orange for a while and make you shit your pants.


But this is the closet we got to seeing it as we froze out arses off for over an hour. That being said, it still was reasonably impressive.


But at the end of the day, the real winner, besides me, was Trekking Poles. Originally invented by the the Scottish to club baby deer whilst walking in the countryside in the early 1800's, they have been incorporated into the Cityslickers Must Have List of items for trekking, along with ipods and battery operated t-bag squeezers. Like most Normal People, I scoffed at the idea of using something as Gay and European as Walking Assistants. They are for old people and cripples right? Having said that, the guy at the hostel near the park, a seasoned trekker of the area, STRONGLY recommended them for hurricane winds and slippery downhill slopes. I conceeded. No one there knew me and I could pretend that I only had them to club native fauna.

Day one, a few hours in, my right knee went. Just fucking went. I suspect my months of cycling on the farm and achieving Armstrong Thigh Status might have strained it somewhat. So I stared down the barrel of pivotal hinge joint induced failure half a day into a five day trek, but my ego would have nothing of it. Out came the poles and over the rest of the day I dragged my sorry arse up and down mountains. That night I thought I was a goner and would be unable to continue the following day. But I left my doubts in the tent that night and the next day I fine crafted a pole-assisted, straight legged walk I called the Polio Pirate Shuffle. And it worked. The ironic thing was that the All Powerful cycling thighs that caused the original knee problem were actually what got me through it. And by half way through the third day I was almost walking normally.

I am man enough to admit when I am wrong. Trekking Poles kick arse and they deserve a little more respect. Let's raise glasses and toast the pole.


I'm talking more credibility. I'm talking parades n' shit. I'm talking give the pole a fucking float at the next Adelaide Christmas Pageant.


See what I mean? Everybody should love the pole.

Poles aside, let's return to the real subject. Me. Some good trekking 'n stuff was done, some icy things were seen, and I have a new weariness of old Dutch men. But at the end of the day the one lesson I re-learned was just exactly how awesome I am because I managed to...


...out-trek my bikers knee. Boooyah!