The art of shaving

During my early-morning shave yesterday, I was rudely jolted to attention by something I can only characterize as any awful “American Idol” singer auto-tuned using that “I Am T-Pain” auto-tune app for iPhone. Point is, at precisely 8:30, a fire drill (and subsequent alarm) forced my half-naked body out of my apartment and into the frigidity of a February morning in Baltimore. The result was, well . . . :

I would have found it more humorous had I not been subjected to countless “Hey, it looks like you were shaving!” comments. No, actually, I wasn’t shaving. I smear shaving cream all over my face for fun.

Indeed, in that case, it wasn’t shaving cream, but the top layer of a whip cream pie.

And, just to continue the trend, I actually have rabies, and was foaming at the mouth.

Those would be truly remarkable insights, because then you would have been telling me something I didn’t already know. (The bit about the rabies . . . that’s just not true.)

In any event, I am now looking for electric razors. I’ll resort to the Barbasol when I have an especially itchy beard to tackle. (Which, for me, is not often.) Suggestions as to which electric razor I should buy are most welcome.