Bald Guy Quotes

It's very difficult to stay angry when a room full of bald guys in orange robes start giggling. Buddhism.

He invented Kung Fu when translated to English means method by which short, bald guys can kick the bejeezus out of you.

I have a thing for evil bald bad guys. The Kurgan is too sexy.

Are you calling me stupid?"says Emby. "I think I just did." Hayden laughs. "Hey, the Mouth Breather's right-unwinding does help people. If it wasn't for unwinding, there would be bald guys again-and wouldn't that be horrible?

As I grow in age, I value women who are over forty most of all. Here are just a few reasons why: A woman over forty will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask, “What are you thinking?” She doesn’t care what you think. If a woman over forty doesn’t want to watch the game, she doesn’t sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do. And, it’s usually something more interesting. A woman over forty knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom. Few women past the age of forty give a hoot what you might think about her or what she’s doing. Women over forty are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won’t hesitate to shoot you, if they think they can get away with it. Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it’s like to be unappreciated. A woman over forty has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn’t trust the guy with other women. Women over forty couldn’t care less if you’re attracted to her friends because she knows her friends won’t betray her. Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over forty. They always know. A woman over forty looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women. Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over forty is far sexier than her younger counterpart. Older women are forthright and honest. They’ll tell you right off if you are a jerk, if you are acting like one! You don’t ever have to wonder where you stand with her. Yes, we praise women over forty for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it’s not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed hot woman of forty-plus, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some twenty-two-year-old waitress. Ladies, I apologize. For all those men who say, “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free,” here’s an update for you. Now 80 percent of women are against marriage, why? Because women realize it’s not worth buying an entire pig, just to get a little sausage.

And that goddamned bald guy from The Weather Channel was in New Orleans. Everyone knew that the guy only went to the place that was going to get hit the worst. Like a bald, douche-bag weather angel of death.

The bellboy that showed me to the room was this very old guy around sixty-five. He was even more depressing than the room was. He was one of those bald guys that comb all their hair over from the side to cover up the baldness. I'd rather be bald than do that. Anyway, what a gorgeous job for a guy around sixty-five years old. Carrying people's suitcases and waiting for a tip.

That baby is small,' observed the bald guy, who sat to the right of Jamie. He nodded, thinking, small but lethal.

If I were a waiter, and a bald guy complained there was a hair in his food, I’d say, “Keep it, compliments of the house. We all pitched in to give you that. Too bad we couldn’t come up with 80,000 more.

You know what you need?” “What?” “You need to think about what a badass bald man would do in this situation” “There are no badass bald men. By definition.” “What about Dwight D. Eisenhower?” Carlos suggested. “President Eisenhower?” “Doesn’t he qualify as a badass?” Carlos insisted. “Look, he may have been president, but he doesn’t exactly come to people’s minds when you ask them to think of a badass.” “All right. How about Kojak?” Carlos asked. “That police detective show with Telly Savalas?” Sammy asked. “Yeah, Kojak. He was a badass. Always cool under pressure.” “All right,” Sammy replied. “Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that Kojak was a bald badass. So what?’ “So you have to imagine how Kojak would deal with this situation we have in front of us. He wouldn’t be worried about whether this girl digs bald guys. He would just walk right up to her, knowing that he’s a badass and just take care of business. You see, it’s all in the delivery.” “The delivery?” “Yeah, the execution

A black Carrera came into the driveway and stopped behind the limo. This must be the director. They guy knew cars, alright. The driver came out of the car. Dare normally didn’t pay attention to a fellow guy’s looks but he did this time. Fuck, he isn’t fat, short, bald and ugly. Celine greeted the guy. They hugged each other and started talking animatedly. His nostrils flared. His fists started to clench but he willed them to relax. Get your shit together, you idiot. That’s the fuckin’ director who’d help Ben with your damn script.

The Empire Strikes Back? The bald guy with the cool bionic radio-transmitter thing that wraps around the back of his skull?

I didn’t go for dangerous guys, especially bald guys wearing skirts who I couldn’t figure out. He

He was one of those bald guys that comb all their hair over from the side to cover up the baldness. I’d rather be bald than do that.

He was one of those bald guys that comb all their hair over from the side to cover up the baldness. I'd rather be bald than do that.

Who the hell was I to tell him differently? Shit, I was just some bald guy wearing a poncho and a tin foil hat. I would have been shunned by bums in Detroit.

How long are you going to wait for this guy?” I’m thrown by his sudden shift. “Ah . . . I don’t know.” “Give me your keys.” “What?” “Give me your keys. I’m going to change your tire while we’re waiting.” I fish in my purse and come up with a handful of keys. “You’re going to—” “Stay in the car.” He grabs the keys and practically yanks them out of my fingers. Then he slams the door in my face. I watch him in the path of his headlights, mystified. He opens my trunk, and, moments later, emerges with the spare tire. He lays it beside the car, then pulls something else from the darkened space. I’ve never changed a tire, so I have no idea what he’s doing. His movements are quick and efficient, though. I shouldn’t be sitting here, just watching, but I can’t help myself. There’s something compelling about him. Dozens of cars have passed, but he was the only one to stop—and he’s helping me despite the fact that I’ve been less than kind to him all night. He gets down on the pavement—on the wet pavement, in the rain—and slides something under the car. A hand brushes wet hair off his face. I can’t sit here and watch him do this. He doesn’t look at me when I approach. “I told you to wait in the car.” “So you’re one of those guys? Thinks the ‘little woman’ should wait in the car?” “When the little woman doesn’t know her tires are bald and her battery could barely power a stopwatch?” He attaches a steel bar to . . . something . . . and starts twisting it. “Yeah. I am.” My pride flinches. “So what are you saying?” I ask, deadpan. “You don’t want my help?” His smile is rueful. “You’re kind of funny when you’re not so busy being judgmental.” “You’re lucky I’m not kicking you while you’re down there.” He loses the smile but keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing. “Try it, sister.

Honestly. Do guys really think that will fool us? 'Whoa, hi there, John. Gosh, for a second there I thought you were going bald, but I see now that you have a full, lush head of hair. Which grows sideways from left to right in sticky strands. Have I ever been this sexually excited? I think not.

I got hard in the fuckin’ barber chair and refused to stand up when the guy finished cutting my hair. I didn’t know what to do so I just kept telling him to take a little off the top until I was basically bald.

A guy from Bear Stearns had visited our class, thin and bald with a gold watch. He told us that if we were interested in getting into finance, we had better work hard and smart because a lot of machines were able to make investment decisions now, and in the future, computer programs would run everything.

Bartender 101? Find the alpha. “Girl Scouts again? Fuck off.” The bald one looks back at the street, checking he has the right house. The young guy grins. The old one purses his lips. There he is. “I’m just fucking with you. I’m Darcy. Tom’s nude right now, but he’ll be right with you.” “I’m not nude,” Tom snaps in irritation, striding into the room.

The Kelseys’ home is done up in shades of beige and beiger. There are just a few pictures scattered around: of just her and Dave, a burly guy, balding, and a gap-tooth smile.

Almost 60 percent of women marry down, meaning most women go for a man with the dad bod. The guy who is more than likely going to make less than them; never work out; eat hot dogs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and, let’s face it, need Viagra by age forty. All it takes is a simple Internet search to get the facts. Women are, by nature, insecure creatures, and if by the tender age of thirty-five they haven’t settled down, they’ll most likely marry the guy with the unfortunate bald spot and a heart of gold. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. It’s kind of like when you go to the pound and pick the dog with the lazy eye because you feel sorry for it, and you know without a doubt that bastard will never stray.

The six o’clock news is all about space, all about emptiness: some bald men plays with little toys to show the docking and undocking maneuvers, and then a panel talks about the significance of this for the next five hundred years. They keep mentioning Columbus but as far as Rabbit can see it’s the exact opposite: Columbus flew blind and hit something, these guys see exactly where they’re aiming and it’s a big round nothing.

I have my retirement all planned out. I can't wait to sit on my lanai in a wicker chair (by the way, I always picture my retirement fantasies in the house from The Golden Girls) and reflect on my life. I'll have a wonderful, leathery tan and a long, silver ponytail even if I'm balding on top. Yes, I'll be THAT guy. I'll also, for the record, insist on wearing only kimonos, turquoise jewelry, and slip-on orthopedic shoes at all times.

What are you doin’, man?” Scott’s voice came from the doorway. I turned and smiled. “Just thinking.” “You seem a little brighter.” “Actually, I was thinking about how I ended up thirty-six, divorced, and trapped in cubicle hell.” He walked to the coffeepot and poured a mug full then leaned against the counter. “You were a workaholic?” he offered. “That’s not why Elizabeth was unfaithful. She fell right into Brad’s skinny arms, and he works more than I do. Hell, Elizabeth works more than I do.” “Why are you dwelling on the past? Look at you. You’re tall. You have hair. And it looks like”—he waved his hand around at my stomach—“you might have abs?” “You checking me out?” “I’d kill for a head of hair like that.” Scott was the kind of guy who was bald by twenty-two. He’s been shaving it Mr. Clean–style since then. “What do women call that thing?” He pointed to the back of my head. “A bun?” “No, there’s, like, a sexier name for it. The ladies love that shit.” “They call it a man-bun.

In the middle-aged softening, you can’t really tell who was a beauty in their twenties from someone who was plain; nor can you believe that the bald guy who now looks like a potato was once a hot stud. And vice versa. He can’t believe you ever had long hair and a body someone would want to see in a bikini. In this syndrome, it’s common to go to parties and run into old friends whom you haven’t seen for a while and who don’t recognize you. Happily, you’ll find yourself able to return the favor all too often.

form of a child. He points it out to John, who thinks he’s nuts, because the person on the shore isn’t a child but a handsome young man. They go to investigate, and although one sees an old, bald man, the other sees a young guy with a beard.” Reverend Justus frowned. “I can quote the Gospel of John forward and backward,” he said, “and that’s not in there.” Fletcher smiled. “I never said it was from the Gospel of John. I said it was from a gospel. A Gnostic one, called the Acts of John.” “There’s no Acts of John in the Bible,

See that guy over there?" I nod toward a man in jean shorts and a Budweiser T-shirt. "Am I that obvious?" St. Clair squints at him. "Obviously what? Balding? Overweight? Tasteless?" "American." He sighs melodramtically. "Honestly, Anna. You must get over this." "I just don't want to offend anyone. I hear they offend easily." "You're not offending anyone except me right now." "What about her?" I point to a middle-aged woman in khaki shorts and a knit top with stars and stripes on it.She has a camera strapped to her belt and is arguing with a man in a bucket hat. Her husband,I suppose. "Completely offensive." "I mean,am I as obvious as her?" "Considering she's wearing the American flag, I'd venture a no on that one." He bites his thumbnail. "Listen.I think I have a solution to your problem, but you'll have to wait for it. Just promise you'll stop asking me to compare you to fifty-year-old women,and I'll take care of everything." "How? With what? A French passport?" He snorts. "I didn't say I'd make you French." I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. "Deal?" "Deal," I say uncomfortably. I don't care for surprises. "But it better be good." "Oh,it's good." And St. Clair looks so smug that I'm about to call him on it, when I realize I can't see our school anymore. I don't believe it.He's completely distracted me.

So . . . for some reason we thought you were the guys assigned to Ms. Lynde’s surveillance. Guess we were mistaken?” “Nope, you got it right,” Kamin said. “We do the night shift. Nice girl. We talk a lot on the way to the gym.” “Oh. Then I guess Agent Wilkins and I are just curious why you two are here instead of with her.” Kamin waved this off. “It’s cool. We did a switcheroo with another cop, see?” “A switcheroo . . . right. Remind me again how that works?” Jack asked. “It’s because she’s got this big date tonight,” Kamin explained. Jack cocked his head. “A date?” Phelps chimed in. “Yeah, you know—with Max-the-investment-banker-she-met-on-the-Bloomingdales-escalator.” “I must’ve missed that one.” “Oh, it’s a great story,” Kamin assured him. “She crashed into him coming off the escalator and when her shopping bag spilled open, he told her he liked her shoes.” “Ah . . . the Meet Cute,” Wilkins said with a grin. Jack threw him a sharp look. “What did you just say?” “You know, the Meet Cute.” Wilkins explained. “In romantic comedies, that’s what they call the moment when the man and woman first meet.” He rubbed his chin, thinking this over. “I don’t know, Jack . . . if she’s had her Meet Cute with another man that does not bode well for you.” Jack nearly did a double take as he tried to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean. Phelps shook his head. “Nah, I wouldn’t go that far. She’s still on the fence about this guy. He’s got problems keeping his job from intruding on his personal life. But she’s feeling a lot of pressure with Amy’s wedding—she’s only got about ten days left to get a date.” “She’s the maid of honor, see?” Kamin said. Jack stared at all three of them. Their lips were moving and sound was coming out, but it was like they were speaking a different language. Kamin turned to Phelps. “Frankly, I think she should just go with Collin, since he and Richard broke up.” “Yeah, but you heard what she said. She and Collin need to stop using each other as a crutch. It’s starting to interfere with their other relationships.” Unbelievable. Jack ran a hand through his hair, tempted to tear it out. But then he’d have a bald spot to thank Cameron Lynde for, and that would piss him off even more. “Can we get back to the switcheroo part?” “Right, sorry. It was Slonsky’s suggestion. 

Damn,” Stacia agreed softly.  “Sorry, but it was your own fault for calling him a monster,” she directed at the bouncer. “What?  What’s he doing?” the big bald guy asked. “He got your scent, so now he’s tracking down which car or truck is yours,” I said. “What’s he gonna do when he finds it?” Baldy asked. “Well, he kinda ate the last one,” I said regretfully. “What!”  Bouncer man took off into the parking lot at a dead run, pulling a key fob from his pocket as he went.  Almost immediately, Awasos came running from the side of the parking lot, having circled around. “Did you find it?” I asked him. He woofed once softly. “Did you pee on his radiator?” Another woof. “Good boy! Baked-on wolf pee has a half-life of like a year! Let’s go,” I said, ignoring the incredulous looks from the good ole boys.

By midafternoon soft snow is falling, muffling four voices that rise from the cardinal points around the circle, north, south, east, and west,intoning names from registration lists obtained by Rainer from museum archives in Berlin--long lists that represent but tiny fractions of that fraction of new prisoners who survived, however briefly, the first selections on this platform and were tattooed with small blue numbers. The impeccable lists include city and country of origin, arrival date, and date of death, not infrequently on that same day or the next. Column after column, page after page, of the more common family names ascend softly from the circle of still figures to be borne away on gusts of wind-whirled snow. Schwartz, Herschel; Schwartz, Isaac A.; Schwartz, Isaac D.; Schwartz, Isidor--Who? Isidor? You too? The voices are all but inaudible as befits snuffed-out identities that exist only on lists, with no more reality than forgotten faces in old photo albums--Who's this bald guy in the back? Stray faces of no more significance than wind fragments of these names of long ago, of no more substance than this snowflake poised one moment on his pen before dissolving into voids beyond all Knowing. In Paradise 87-88

I touched my hairline. Maybe she was right. Maybe it had receded somewhat. Or was it my imagination? Something new to worry about. “What do you mean?” I asked. “How can I be careful?” “You can’t, I guess. There’s nothing you can do. There’s no way to prevent baldness. Guys who are going to go bald go bald. When their time comes, that’s it: they just go bald. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. They tell you you can keep from going bald with proper hair care, but that’s bullshit. Look at the bums who sleep in Shinjuku Station. They’ve all got great heads of hair. You think they’re washing it every day with Clinique or Vidal Sassoon or rubbing Lotion X into it? That’s what the cosmetics makers will tell you, to get your money.” “I’m sure you’re right,” I said, impressed. “But how do you know so much about baldness?” “I’ve been working part time for a wig company. Quite a while now. You know I don’t go to school, and I’ve got all this time to kill. I’ve been doing surveys and questionnaires, that kind of stuff. So I know all about men losing their hair. I’m just loaded with information.” “Gee,” I said. “But you know,” she said, dropping her cigarette butt on the ground and stepping on it, “in the company I work for, they won’t let you say anybody’s ‘bald.’ You have to say ‘men with a thinning problem.’ ‘Bald’ is discriminatory language. I was joking around once and suggested ‘gentlemen who are follically challenged,’ and boy, did they get mad! ‘This is no laughing matter, young lady,’ they said. They’re so damned seeerious. Did you know that? Everybody in the whole damned world is so damned serious.

When we were recording the Ozzmosis album we did a batch of it in New York. There was this occult bookstore...and they had everything in there on Wicca, Catholicism, Satanism, the whole nine yards. I was getting some Aleister Crowley stuff because Jimmy Page owned the castle (Crowley's former home) and the other guys were into him. ...I go to get his poster they had in there, I go "How much for this poster?" and the guy looks at me deadpan and goes "$6.66." I put seven bucks down and say "Keep the goddamn change. I can't take it, dude." So I hang the poster up and the boss man (Ozzy) walks in and he goes "Zakk, who's the guy upon the wall?" . I'm crying laughing and he goes "Zakk, who the fuck is he?!" I said "Ozz, you don't know who that is?" He goes "I don't fucking know, who is it?!" I said "Ozz! It's Aleister Crowley, bro!" He goes "Oh is that what that bald-headed cunt looks like?

So now what do I do? Do I just approach and start slamming my palms on the window, demanding answers? That seemed somewhat logical. It also seemed kind of stupid. Do I sit here and wait? For how long? And what if the car drives off? Then what? I was still hunched behind the bush, trying to decide what to do, when the decision was made for me. The front passenger door opened and the bald guy stepped out. He still wore the dark suit, and despite the hour, he even had the sunglasses on. For a moment the man stood perfectly still, his back to the bush. Then he slowly turned his head and said, “Mickey.” Gulp. I had no idea how he had seen me, but it didn’t matter now. I stood up. He stared at me from behind those sunglasses, and in spite of the heat, I swear I felt a chill. “You have questions,” the bald man said to me. He spoke with one of those exaggerated British accents that almost sound phony. Like he’d gone to some fancy prep school and wanted to make sure you knew it. “But you’re not yet ready for the answers.” “What does that mean?” “It means,” he said, still with that accent, “just what it sounds like.” I frowned. “It sounds like something you’d read on a bad fortune cookie.” There was the hint of a smile on the bald man’s face. “Don’t tell anyone about us.” “Like who?” “Like anyone. Like your uncle.” “Myron? What would I tell him anyway? I don’t know anything. Who exactly are you? Or, as you put it, us?” “You’ll know,” he said, “when the time is right.” “And when will that be?” The man slid back into the car. He never seemed to hurry, but every moment was almost supernaturally fast and fluid. “Wait!” I shouted. I moved quickly, trying to reach the car door before it closed. “What were you doing in that house? Who are you?” But it was too late. He slammed the door shut. The car started up. Now, as I semi-planned earlier, I slapped the tinted windows with my palm. “Stop!” The

This guy Lobo, whose real and true name was Wolfgang Fink, played better than good flamenco guitar in a place called Mamma Mia in Puerto Vallarta. Had a partner name of Willie Royal, tall gangly guy who was balding a little early and wore glasses and played hot gypsy-jazz violin. They'd worked out a repertoire of their own tunes, "Improvisation #18" and "Gypsy Rock" as examples, played 'em high and hard, rolled through "Amsterdam" and "The Sultan's Dream" with enough power to set you two times free or even beyond that when the day had been tolerable and the night held promise. Lobo, sun worn and hard lined in the face looking over at Willie Royal bobbing and weaving and twisting his face into a mean imitation of a death mask when he really got into it, right wrist looking almost limp but moving his bow at warp speed across the strings, punctuated here and there by Lobo's stabbing ruscados and finger tapping on the guitar top. Good music, wonderful music, tight and wild all at the same time. On those nights when the sweat ran down your back and veneered your face and the gringitas looked good enough to swallow whole - knowing too they looked just that way and them watching the crowd to see who might be man enough to try it - people would be riding on the music, drinking and clapping in flamenco time, dancing around the dinner tables.

I told Trent I had to be at work, and then he finally agreed to let me and some of the others go.” Agreed to let her go. Really? “You didn’t think to take Dixie home?” I asked, trying to hide my outrage. Her shoulders stiffened. “I was goin’ to, but Trent said he’d do it.” I really needed to have another talk with Trent. “How many other people were at the party? Who were they?” “About twelve or so.” She took a breath as if gathering her courage. “Monica and Blane Hyde. Rebecca Smelt. Matt Greenwood. And Amelia. Oh, and Rick Springfield.” She paused. “That’s it.” That lined up with the list Dixie had given me. Neither of them had mentioned Nash Jackson. “What about Rick’s cousin?” Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Why would Rick’s cousin show up at Trent’s party?” Her tone indicated she was talking about the bald one Amber had mentioned. “Not Herbert. Nash.” “Who’s Nash?” Why had no one heard of this guy? I shook my head. “Rick’s cousin, Nash Jackson, has been hanging around, and no one seems to know who he is. Could he have been there?” She shrugged. “Maybe . . . ? Rick didn’t stay long. He showed up early but left while Dixie was in the bathroom.” “Rick was in the house while Dixie was there?” “He may not have gone in the house. Most of us use the gate at the side of the house. The Dunbars added one of those fancy iron fences a few years back.” “But he could have gone inside.” And if Dixie had left her drink on a counter or table, he would have had access to drug her. But why drug her if he was leaving? So far I had more questions than answers. “Who was still there when you left?” “Amelia. And Gabby and Mark. Wait . . . ,” she said, her eyes widening. “Bruce showed up around the time I was leavin’.” “Bruce Jepper?” He wasn’t on Dixie’s list, but then he wouldn’t have been if he’d arrived after she lost consciousness. “Yeah. He looked pissed and drunk, but

thin glasses that seemed to get lost on his wide red face. His balding forehead glared in the overhead lights. He reminded Bryan a little of that Muppet—the puffy-faced science guy with glasses but no eyeballs on his melon head. “For example, the next time that bell rings, all of you will immediately forget everything I’ve told you. You will scramble for your backpacks, and you will rush out that door without so much as a simple thank-you for all the mind-blowing knowledge I bestowed upon you today. You will do so mindlessly, as you have for the last several weeks of school, because it is a conditioned response. The bell is a stimulus and you are conditioned to act a certain way when you hear it.” Like ducking behind someone taller as soon as you spot Tank Wattly coming down the hall, Bryan thought. Or losing your ability to say anything witty or intelligent whenever this one girl in particular so much as looks at you. “We are all conditioned by our environment. We are all creatures of instinct, driven by our need to survive, but capable of learning through experience. In that way we are actually no different,” Tomlins said, reaching beneath him and pulling up a wire cage from under the table, “from mice.” Susan Onesacker screamed, but the rest of the class bent forward to get a better look at the tufts of white fur huddled against one another in the cage. There had to be at least a dozen of them in there. Beady little red eyes. Twitching noses. Some of the mice lifted their snouts to the air. Others started clawing to find an exit. They didn’t

I was determined to get this guy talking. Whenever we’d go to lockdown I was in there peppering him with questions in a friendly manner. I asked, “What are you here for?” All I got out of that question was, “Ever since that day. Ever since that day everything went downhill.” I regretted asking him that question and thought, Oh man, this guy killed somebody. I am going to have to sleep with one eye open! This balding, middle-aged man-child just sat there, looking nonthreatening. He had a pretty good belly on him. And his mannerisms struck me as childlike. He was always talking about his mom. In his mutterings about “that day” he also said, “I just wanna get back to my mom.” At first glance I didn’t find him threatening, but all this talk had me thinking he was like Norman Bates from Psycho and maybe he had killed his mother. But then he said, “Ever since that day when I turned two, my parents didn’t want me anymore.” When he said that I found myself thinking, I’d rather he had told me he killed someone. This is much, much creepier.

An enormous, golden statue dominates the room. From this angle, it looks like a chubby, bald guy in a diaper sitting on a box.

Every guy you saw these days had shaved away his male-pattern baldness in a futile attempt to look hard rather than merely hairless.

What a wonderful way for the “less fortunate” to participate in the arts, to immerse themselves in the world of music. The bald guy was really patting himself on the back there, bragging how as an organization, they were pioneers of this cutting-edge innovation,

What a werflndll weapon, even if the guy lived he’d be bald.

Me: I’m sorry, I really flew off the handle back there. It was like the handle was a bald guy going really fast, and I was his toupée.

Once in a while, on my route to Hollywood, a car driven by some older guy would pull over and honk. Then lean over and wink. This gesture was ignored, but sometimes they still circled the block and tried again. When one of the cars pulled up to me and a balding middle-aged driver rolled his window down and motioned for me to come over. I ignored him and continued walking. So he peeled out. Creepy shit. Not what I was looking for.

Hey, Dylan,” I said, holding my orange ball. “You got rid of the Mohawk.” Lark and Raven’s stepbrother ran his hand over his bald head and sighed. “Yeah, I’d been thinking about going the business man route for a while. Kept going back and forth about cutting it. A few weeks ago, I got drunk at Lark’s place. The sisters were nice enough to shave my head while I was passed out.” Nearby, Raven laughed so hard she had trouble distracting Vaughn who was still trying to win the game. Dylan glared at her then shrugged. “Gonna let it grow out and play the average Joe shit.” “Good luck with that,” I said, glancing at the bathroom and hoping Bailey would appear. When she didn’t, I walked to an open lane and rolled the ball. It took out a single pin which was one more than I expected. A lane away Raven struggled to win against Vaughn. She bent over one direction. When her ass didn’t do it, she bent forward and adjusted her tits. A distracted Vaughn missed his strike with a single pin remaining. Before I could hear him complain and her celebrate, Cooper and Tucker appeared next to me. “I liked the way you handled that fucker,” Tucker said, arms crossed tightly. “You always know how to deal with these losers while looking like a Boy Scout. A good skill to have.” Ignoring them, I rolled the second ball and managed to take out three pins. A new record for me. “What’s with the silent shit?” Tucker asked. Sighing, I looked at them and frowned. “I want to be with Bailey. We just started dating, but here I am jumping through hoops for you two. You do this shit with every guy?” “Most are losers,” Cooper said. “Most never do the second date thing. They bang then hang. If they’re lucky, she never mentions it to us and we don’t kick anyone’s ass. You’re the first boyfriend type she’s had.” “Our family needs good people,” added Tucker. Cooper shifted his stance and shook his head at his brother. “He doesn’t want that life. Nick wants to be a teacher.” “Why?” “Who cares?” Cooper said. “It’s what he wants. Sounds like a nice safe life for our little sister, don’t you think?” Tucker’s expression froze and his dopey brain took awhile to put things together. By the time he figured it out, I’d rolled a gutter ball, Bailey returned, and Vaughn declared his wife a cheater. “It’s only fair!” Raven cried as Vaughn threw her over his shoulder and spun her around. “You’re a better bowler and I want to win. Cheating was the only card I could play.” “Making me think some fucker was looking at your ass was low, Raven.” “So is naming our first born son Maverick. You’re just looking for trouble with a name like that.” Vaughn lowered her to her feet then grinned. “My boys will be nothing but trouble. They’ll own this town and chase pretty girls like Scarlet and Lily.” “Hey, keep your pervy kid away from my daughter!” Tucker hollered, looking pissed. Cooper grabbed his brother and they wrestled onto the ground. By the end of pounding each other, they were both laughing.

In my mind I imagined that all communist students were bald, and here was my interlocutor, a handsome guy with long hair. He did not match any of my images of the communists. Perhaps it is a product of the revolution that has just started in Czechoslovakia and was nipped in the bud, I thought to myself.

The kitchen lights came on, revealing two goons behind the bald guy. Younger guys who were also dressed entirely in black. The one on the left had one of those ridiculous curved collectors’ knives, the kind they sell on the Home Shopping Network that looked like they’re used to skin buffalo. Glinting in the overhead florescence, it didn’t look ridiculous at all. His partner had opted for the maniac implement de jour—a sixteen inch chainsaw.

tried to guess which ones wouldn’t make it to the end of the course the following day. She noticed that one bald guy at the back, carrying

What?” Judd growled and I had to admit Tawny was right about him sounding like a dog when he did that. Turning around, I noticed two of Cooper’s club guys standing behind us. “What’s your deal, O’Keefe?” one guy asked while the other avoided Judd’s hateful gaze. When no one responded, the big bald guy looked me up and down. “She’s tiny. How does fucking even work?” Aaron shifted next to me, now looking as hostile as Judd. “Back off, Mac.” “Just curious. I’ve never fucked a tiny chick.” “You shouldn’t talk about a man’s girl that way especially when she’s carrying his kid,” Cooper warned, clearly wanting to jump in, but holding back so not to emasculate Aaron. Farah said guys in the club were testing Cooper lately because they sensed weakness in his leadership. I couldn’t imagine anyone looking at Cooper without fearing his wrath. Even if they didn’t fear Cooper, they ought to fear his enforcers. After all, Judd was glaring at Mac like waiting for any reason to attack. Sensing a back story to this pissing match, I knew Mac was about to say something nasty even before he opened his mouth. “I hear chicks get big tits when they’re knocked up. Certainly can’t hurt with this one.” Why Mac was starting shit didn’t matter. Aaron threw the punch and the bar immediately exploded into violence. Judd was waiting for a reason to attack while Cooper and Vaughn were always up for a fight. Aaron hit Mac again as the bigger guy stumbled back. I thought of grabbing a chair and helping my man, but Tawny pulled me away. Soon, we were hiding under a table where Farah crouched with wide eyes. “Aaron needs to stake his claim and protect his woman,” Tawny said, cuddled next to Farah. “If you help him, it’s like you’re cutting off his balls and tossing them in your purse. Immature or not, these guys need to be men or they get insecure. Can’t have that.

Well, friends, learning about the “world” is not pretending you’re a hooker while a guy from the part of New Jersey that’s near Pennsylvania decides which Steely Dan record to put on at 4:00 A.M. The secrets of life aren’t being revealed when someone laughs at you for having studied creative writing. There is no enlightenment to be gained from letting your semiboyfriend’s bald friend touch your thigh too close to the place where it meets your crotch, but you let it happen because you think you might be in love.

The man headed to a steel door. It buzzed. The man opened it and went inside. It took about five minutes. A bald guy with spectacles entered the room. He was nervous. Big Cyndi started giving him the eye. She licked her lips. She cupped what might have been her breasts. Myron shook his head, afraid she’d drop to her knees and pantomime lord-knew-what when the door mercifully opened. The man with the sunglasses poked his head out.

From inside the Contuzzi apartment I heard the phone ring. Once, twice, three times. “Bolitar?” It stopped after six rings. “We know you’re still in London. Where are you?” I hung up and looked at Mario’s door. The ringing phone—ringing like a phone used to, not like some ringtone on a cell—had sounded very much like a landline. Hmm. I put my hand on the door. Thick and sturdy. I pressed my ear against the cool surface, hit Mario’s cell phone number, watched the LCD display on my mobile. It took a moment or two before the connection went through. When I heard the faint chime of Mario’s cell phone through the door—the landline had been loud; this was not—dread flooded my chest. True, it may be nothing, but most people nowadays do not travel even the shortest of distances, including bathroom visits, without the ubiquitous cell phone clipped or carried upon their person. You can bemoan this fact, but the chances that a guy working in television news would leave his cell phone behind while heading to his office seemed remote. “Mario?” I shouted. I started pounding on the door. “Mario?” I didn’t expect him to answer, of course. I pressed my ear against the door again, listening for I’m not sure what—a groan maybe. A grunt. Calling out. Something. No sound. I wondered about my options. Not many. I reared back, lifted my heel, and kicked the door. It didn’t budge. “Steel-enforced, mate. You’ll never kick it down.” I turned toward the voice. The man wore a black leather vest without any sort of shirt underneath, and sadly, he didn’t have the build to pull it off. His physique, on too clear a display, managed to be both scrawny and soft. He had a cattle-ring piercing in his nose. He was balding but the little hair he had left was done up in what might be called a comb-over Mohawk. I placed his age at early fifties. It looked like he had gone out to a gay bar in 1979 and had just gotten home. “Do you know the Contuzzis?” I asked. The man smiled. I expected another dental nightmare, but while the rest of him might be in various stages of decay, his teeth were gleaming. “Ah,” he said. “You’re an American.” “Yes.” “Friends with Mario, are we?” No reason to go into a long answer here: “Yes.” “Well, what can I tell you, mate? Normally they’re a quiet couple, but you know what they say—when the wife’s away, the mouse will play.

Of course it’s fairly obvious where it’s coming from. Even the most casual Democratic voters understand by now that there is a schism within the party, one that pits “party insiders” steeped in the inside-baseball muck of Washington money culture against . . . well, against us, the actual voters. The insiders have for many years running now succeeded in convincing their voters that their actual beliefs are hopeless losers in the general electoral arena, and that certain compromises must be made if the party is ever to regain power. This defeatist nonsense is sold to the public in the form of beady-eyed party hacks talking to one another in the opinion pages of national media conglomerates, where, after much verbose and solemn discussion, the earnest and idealistic candidate the public actually likes is dismissed on the grounds that “he can’t win.” In his place is trotted out the guy the party honchos insist to us is the real “winner”—some balding, bent little bureaucrat who has grown prematurely elderly before our very eyes over the course of ten or twenty years of sad, compromise-filled service in the House or the Senate. This “winner” is then given a lavish parade and sent out there on the trail, and we hold our noses as he campaigns in our name on a platform of Jesus, the B-2 bomber, and the death penalty for eleven-year-olds, consoling ourselves that he at least isn’t in favor of repealing the Voting Rights Act. (Or is he? We have to check.) Then he loses to the Republicans anyway and we start all over again—beginning with the next primary election, when we are again told that the antiwar candidate “can’t win” and that the smart bet is the corporate hunchback still wearing two black eyes from the last race. No

I reached the end of the street and turned right. There they were, about twelve meters away. The Japanese guy had his left side to me. He was talking to the American. The American was facing me, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He was holding a lighter at waist level, flicking it, trying to get it going. I forced myself to keep my pace casual, just another pedestrian. My heart began to beat harder. I could feel it pounding in my chest, behind my ears. Ten meters. I popped the plastic lid off the paper cup with my thumb. I felt it tumble across the back of my hand. Seven meters. Adrenaline was slowing down my perception of the scene. The Japanese guy glanced in my direction. He looked at my face. His eyes began to widen. Five meters. The Japanese guy reached out for the American, the gesture urgent even through my adrenalized slow-motion vision. He grabbed the American’s arm and started pulling on it. Three meters. The American looked up and saw me. The cigarette dangled from his lips. There was no recognition in his eyes. Two meters. I stepped in and flung the cup forward. Its contents of ninety-eight degrees centigrade Earl Gray tea exited and caught the American directly in the face and neck. His hands flew up and he shrieked. I turned to the Japanese. His eyes were popped all the way open, his head rotating back and forth in the universal gesture of negation. He started to raise his hands as though to ward me off. I grabbed his shoulders and shoved him into the wall. Using the same forward momentum, I stepped in and kneed him squarely in the balls. He grunted and doubled over. I turned back to the American. He was bent forward, staggering, his hands clutching at his face. I grabbed the collar of his jacket and the back of his trousers and accelerated him headfirst into the wall like a matador with a bull. His body shuddered from the impact and he dropped to the ground. The Japanese guy was lying on his side, clutching his crotch, gasping. I hauled him up by the lapels and shoved his back against the wall. I looked left, then right. It was just the three of us. “Tell me who you are,” I said in Japanese. He made retching noises. I could see he was going to need a minute. Keeping my left hand pressed against his throat, I patted him down to confirm he didn’t have a weapon, then checked his ears and jacket to ensure he wasn’t wired for sound. He was clean. I reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a wallet. I flipped it open. The ID was right in front, in a slip-in laminated protector. Tomohisa Kanezaki. Second Secretary, Consular Affairs, U.S. Embassy. The bald eagle logo of the U.S. Department of State showed blue and yellow in the background.

I see rather than hear a guy in a suit and tie knocking on my door.  I wave him in, he opens the door and starts strolling toward my desk, he’s followed by two long haired, bearded, overweight, scruffy looking assholes both wearing glasses, short sleeved white shirts with their shirt breast pocket full of pens and little ruler looking things, complete with pocket protectors.       He’s wearing a really cheap looking blue suit, that’s been worn shiny slick and had to be right out of the 50’s.  The suit is adorned with a greasy looking; really wide tie that had more soup stains than Campbell’s.  To complete his ensemble he’s chosen a pair of shit brown shoes that hadn’t seen polish since they were new, which had to be a long time ago.  To top it all off, he’s sporting the most massive “Comb Over” on his head I’ve ever seen.  On the left side of his head was a “Tuft” of very thin gray hair.  He’d allowed this to grow until he could comb it all the way over the top of his bald head and down to his right ear.  I couldn’t help but stare.      Marines are first impression people and if you present a poor one, they generally will turn you off immediately. 

The concierge was about 5’7” tall, blond hair, slightly balding, steely blue eyes, steel rimmed glasses, mid-forties and totally devoid of any apparent sense of humor.  If this guy wasn’t a former SS officer I’d never see one.  I greeted him and told him what I wanted to do.  He looked at me very sternly and said, “Zo you vish to go to Zermatt, eh?”      It was as if he was saying, “Are you papers in order?”  It almost gave me a chill.  As an American you’re born into freedom.   You can’t imagine some government jerk or army officer questioning your right to go anywhere.  It was just a brief flash for what it must have been like during the war and I didn’t like it one damn bit.  It was a realization and I let it go.

He was one of those bald guys that comb all their hair over from the side to cover up the baldness. I’d rather be bald than do that.

A bald-headed man lunged for me. I dove out of the way, hitting the ground, hard. Wincing, I scrambled back to my feet but not fast enough. The guy grabbed me, squeezing his fingers into my arm, pulling me toward him. I screamed in reflex, struggling to break free but I couldn’t. And one desperate look around proved no one could help me either. This was it. The moment I’ve been running from. He leaned forward, his mouth opening, ready to bite me and I shut my eyes, cringing, thrashing about defenselessly. Checkmate.

Minyon said first I needed to talk to Gary Gensler. Again with the Gary Gensler. Who was Gary Gensler? Minyon assured me that I knew him. I’d worked with him on the platform committee. “Was he that bald guy with the big glasses who acts like he knows everything?” Minyon said the reason he acted like that was because he did know everything. Gary had been an undersecretary of the Treasury under Bill Clinton and the chair of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission under Obama. He had worked at Goldman Sachs before he got into politics. Not Goldman Sachs again!

Well, no worries there. Pretty sure if she looks anything like you, there will be no need for rule number five.” His brow lifts, and I realize what I just said. “I mean, shit, I didn’t mean that. You’re actually, wow, you’re a good-looking guy, very attractive. The bald thing really accentuates your . . . uh, steely eyes, and the tan you’ve been able to procure while coaching a winter sport is really impressive. Not to mention your physique, just oof, what a bundle of muscles that are not wrinkly. Some people your age might look wrinkly, but not you. You’re firm. Firm in all the right places. So much firmness. Just look at those forearms and the sinew and firmness. Lots of firmness. And you know, just to throw it out there, not that you asked, but if I were a woman, then hell yeah, I would be talking to you about a date, or maybe a kiss or⁠—” “Shut the fuck up.

And in my dad’s lap, there I am: a baby, eyes closed, bald as a butter bean. In that moment, I could have turned out to be anything. I didn’t have to be a kid who snuck cheese out of the refrigerator, a teenager who stole sandwiches at school, a college kid who drank way too much beer, a young man who quit running and jumping, a middle-aged guy who caused pain and worry for the people who loved him. I could have been better. I want to reach back into that photo and tell that little baby to live a different life. But as my friend Thomas Lake once wrote: Time is a dark blue river, and it rolls one way.

balding guy with a potbelly and tiny, mean eyes was

The shirtsleeved bald bartender was tall and fat, looking like a retired cop who'd gone to seed the day his papers had come through. At the bar, muttering together about sports and politics—other people's victories and defeats—were nine or ten shabbily dressed guys who were older than their teeth.

He was a tall narrow guy with a bald head. Wisps of black hair were carefully plastered over it to make it look worse.

While I'm at the hairdresser to be shampooed, I'm thumbing through a magazine and I land on Donald Trump and his new fiancée. Blonde girl, twenty-five, fine. But as for him, and I put on my glasses to take a better look, he's pushing sixty, hair like an upside-down conch shell, setting off from the back of his head at an angle of 110 degrees, probably to hide a bald spot and landing in a fringed swag on his forehead. The whole thing a tone poem of russet browns. There's a guy who's earning a good living, I say to myself as I wait to be shampooed, a guy who has his photograph taken day and night and hasn't found a single person in his entourage who'll tell him, "No, Mr. Trump, it's not okay, it's absolutely not okay.

Tall, bald, about a mile wide at the shoulders, a hawk bill for a nose, and a couple of ears that would have made Dumbo proud, this guy had not only been hit by the ugly stick, he'd been pounded.

and mostly empty, as we’re still thirty minutes from the ceremony. ‘First things first…’ I say. ‘Kevin is a real assjack. What d’you see in that guy?’ Why she would have ever dated him in high school is beyond me. He’s a far cry from her husband, Jake. Kevin is a narcissistic forty-something, white, balding man with a beer gut. Jake is a funny thirty-something black guy with a six-pack. They’re worlds apart. But Kevin, unfortunately, owns the building I want to lease. The building that once held my late father’s florist shop. I remember spending entire days in that shop helping my dad put together floral arrangements and going out on deliveries. I’d love to have my shop in a place filled with so many memories of him.

With a potbelly that rivaled a full-term pregnancy and a horseshoe of salt-and-pepper hair shellacked around his otherwise bald head, Harris was the kind of guy who had probably looked middle-aged since he was in kindergarten

At least he has Petty, bald and clean-shaven, sitting in the corner in one of the comfy chairs reading The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway; next to him is a cup of the coffee Books always has brewing. It probably isn’t the greatest idea to let a homeless man hang out in your store, but Petty keeps to himself and keeps himself reasonably presentable, and, really, how could Books turn away a guy who served two tours in Desert Storm and gave up so much for his country, not least of which was his sanity?

To return and see all the differences was like running into an old boyfriend who’d been voted Best Hair in school, beating out all the guys and the girls, and then finding time had left him not just with a bald spot, but bald altogether.  This type of thing might have been acceptable had the old boyfriend entered the UFC or was blessed with a name like Bruce Willis, but if he was skinny and had a square-shaped head, well, it just wasn’t the same thing.  And that’s what Tehachapi had become to me—different, almost to the point of indistinguishable.

Take all your overgrown infants away, somewhere And build them a home, a little place of their own The Fletcher Memorial Home For incurable tyrants and kings They can appear to themselves every day On closed circuit TV To make sure they're still real It's the only connection they feel Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, Reagan and Haig Mr. Began and friend, Mrs. Thatcher, the Paisly (Hello Maggie!) Mr. Brezhnev and party, the Ghost of McCarthy And the memories have mixed and now adding colour (Who's the bald chap?) A group of anonymous Latin American meat packing glitterati Did they expect us to treat them with any respect? They can polish their medals and sharpen their smiles And please themselves by playing games for a while Boom boom, bang bang, lie down you're dead Safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye With their favourite toy There'll be good girls 'n' boys In the Fletcher Memorial Home for colonial Wasters of life and limb Is everyone in? Are you having English time? (Big guy) Now final solution can be applied

With the shower on full blast, I crank my Wet Tunes, the hope being that I can drown out one song in my head with another. Better yet, maybe they’ll play the same song, so I can hear the lyrics and figure out what it is. Somehow, I don’t imagine myself being that lucky. The shower does feel good, though, so I stay in there for a while. As the water cascades over my head, I begin to relax. I’ve got the radio tuned to WFUV, the college radio station out of Fordham, and they’re playing “Alison” by Elvis Costello, one of my favorites. Before I know it — and just as I hoped — it’s the only thing I hear between my ears. That is, until the song ends and some guy comes on reading the news. I whip back my head from the shower spray. I could swear he said something about a tragedy at the Fálcon Hotel. But that’s not what has me shaking like a leaf as I try to towel myself dry. The radio newsman didn’t say it happened yesterday. He said it happened this morning. Thirty minutes later, Michael hasn’t called, but I’m heading out the door of my place. I turn my key to double-lock it. And — “Ms. Burns? Ms. Burns?” Not again. It’s way too early to face the Wicked Witch on Nine. I turn — and it’s even worse than I thought. Mrs. Rosencrantz has brought a bald old man, who towers over her despite his being no more than five-foot-five, six tops. “You were screaming and screaming,” she practically screams in my face. “You woke up my Herbert. He heard it. Ask him, Ms. Burns.” I don’t ask Herbert.

14. He’s denied climate change. Then denied that he denied it.​​ Here’s Trump calling global warming a conspiracy created by the Chinese: The concept of global warming was created by and for the Chinese in order to make U.S. manufacturing non-competitive. @realDonaldTrump – 11:15 AM – 6 Nov 2012 More tweets of him calling global warming a hoax… NBC News just called it the great freeze – coldest weather in years. Is our country still spending money on the GLOBAL WARMING HOAX? @realDonaldTrump – 3:48 PM – 25 Jan 2014 This very expensive GLOBAL WARMING bullshit has got to stop. Our planet is freezing, record low temps,and our GW scientists are stuck in ice @realDonaldTrump – 4:39 PM – 1 Jan 2014 Ice storm rolls from Texas to Tennessee – I’m in Los Angeles and it’s freezing. Global warming is a total, and very expensive, hoax! @realDonaldTrump – 7:13 AM – 6 Dec 2013 Then, during a presidential debate with Hillary Clinton, Trump denied that he said any of this. Here’s the video. Clinton says, “Donald thinks that climate change is a hoax, perpetrated by the Chinese. I think it’s real.” Trump interrupts to say, “I do not say that. I do not say that.” Actually, Donald, you’ve said nothing else. Trump has also said, dozens of times in tweets like this, that global warming sounds like a great idea: It’s freezing and snowing in New York–we need global warming! @realDonaldTrump – 11:24 AM – 7 Nov 2012 Here he is hating wind turbines: It’s Friday. How many bald eagles did wind turbines kill today? They are an environmental & aesthetic disaster. @realDonaldTrump – 12:55 PM – 24 Aug 2012 Trump fought against a “really ugly” offshore wind farm in Scotland because it would mar the view from his Scottish golf resort. My new club on the Atlantic Ocean in Ireland will soon be one of the best in the World – and no-one will be looking into ugly wind turbines! @realDonaldTrump – 5:24 AM – 14 Feb 2014

Hey, Holly, Well, how do you feel about writing to a bald guy? Seriously, I did it. I shaved my head! Most all the guys in Mr. Fremont’s class did, too. It’s weird what some people will do to encourage a friend.

We had a system of accounting, a chart on a wall. There were merits and demerits. A merit was for an outrage successfully committed, a demerit for an act that should bring on humiliation. Juicy got merits for drooling into cocktails undetected, while Low got demerits for kissing up to a father. Probably not his own—Low’s parentage was a well-kept secret. But he’d been spotted asking a guy with male-pattern baldness for wardrobe advice. Low was a baby-faced giant of Mongolian descent, adopted from Kazakhstan. He was the worst dresser among us, rocking a seventies look that involved tie-dyed tank tops and short-shorts with white piping. Some made of terrycloth.

I loved the guy. He was five feet seven inches tall, meaner than a bear with a sore ass, shaved his head bald, and talked like he had a mouth full of gravel. He was one badass Marine. He weighed in about 210 and wanted no shit from no one.

Make her qualify herself a few times before escalating to a first date. Doing this will imply to her that you are man who has options. One way to do this is to briefly mention a personality trait that you admire in others and then suggest that perhaps she has that personality trait. If she responds by confirming what you suggest, she is essentially validating herself to gain your approval. Only after she does this a few times should you consider asking her to meet you in person. Here is one way to make her qualify herself to you. “I’m a big fan of people who take care of their health and yet also enjoy the little things in life. You mention in your profile that you eat healthy. I think that’s great. Do you allow yourself to indulge in a little bit of ice cream or chocolate every now and then?” Pass the sneaky tests women will throw at you in their messages by straddling the line between alpha and beta. If women find some incongruence between your profile content, photographs, and messages, they will try to expose the cause of that discrepancy. For example, if your profile content and messages to a woman indicate that you are a man who is successful with women, but you are 5’8” tall, bald, and far from handsome, she will want to make sure that you really a high-value man. So, she might mention a recent bad date, a strange email message, or some other communication that she received from a low-value guy and ask you what your thoughts are on that issue. If you talk negatively about the low-value guy, she will convince herself that you could not possibly be a high-value man. After all, high-status men do not make fun of those who stand lower in the social hierarchy. If you empathize with the low-value guy by explaining his actions, she will think that you must be a low-value guy yourself. How else could you feel this guy’s pain? The best

Yeah because he don't want to debate me, I'm too intellectual. One thing about me, you know, I'm the equivalent of an Obama, you know what I'm saying. My intellect is very deep. I have linguistics and dialects that he probably couldn't comprehend. My mental gymnastics which is overcapacitate his train of thought. So I wouldn't you know even be in the same vocabulary with him. You know. It would hurt him for him to have me on television and me to have more conversation and more intellect than him. And him being some old, blue eyed, whatever the fuck coloured hair guy bald spot having dick sucking son of a bitch.

During the years of solitary confinement we had communicated with other POWs using a tap code -- tapping on the walls. During the time I was tortured I mainly tapped on the wall with Howie Dunn, a marine F-4 pilot. I poured out my heart to him. We talked about what the Vietnamese were doing to us, we talked about food, we talked about women, we talked about our past lives and what we wanted to do in the future. We tapped for hours. At one point I said, "Howie, what do you look like?" He tapped back and said, "Actually, I look a lot like John Wayne." We were moved away from each other, and I didn't talk to him for about five years. Right before we were coming home the Vietnamese allowed us to all get out together in a big compound and "greet one another" as they said. So I'm standing there talking to some people and this guy walks up to me -- he's short and bald and nondescript, a complete and absolute stranger. I had never laid eyes on him before. He sticks out his hand and says, "Hi, I'm Howie Dunn." In a flash, there he was, my best friend. [Porter Halyburton, US Navy pilot POW in North Vietnam, 1965 - 1973]

He’s a bald CEO robot guy with both mommy and anger issues from another planet. It’s not like he’s going to know I’m lifting material, Carl.

Guys—can you hear me?” I called over the radio. “This is uh—pit bull.” I probably should have chosen a more imposing American call sign, like bald eagle or student loan debt.