Some guys are really into shaving. They’re so into it that they rebel against those super-expensive, multi-bladed monsters, and instead go for expensive, vintage shaving tools to feel fancy. But these guys could be giving themselves old school anthrax.
The Centers for Disease Control has put out a warning to hipsters everywhere that their vintage shaving brushes could come with free vintage anthrax spores. Back around World War I there was a pretty bad outbreak of head and face anthrax in the U.S. and U.K. Researchers are concerned that brushes from before 1930 will carry these anthrax spores and cause a new outbreak among hipsters. All it takes is a nick in the skin for the spores to enter your body and before long, you’ve got swelling, bumps and blisters that could potentially kill you.
But hey, using some other guy’s old shaving stuff is so cool.
A hundred years ago today the World War I: The Phantom Menace began. Unless we’re talking about birthdays or wedding anniversaries, marking the years since an event happened really doesn’t serve much more purpose other than to sell books or fill time on Pardon The Interruption. (What is it with those guys? They have a “Happy Ann’y” for the most meaningless stuff in sports.)
However, marking a century since the beginning of a massive war that claimed at least 39 million lives seems somewhat appropriate, doesn’t it? After all, WWI gave us some of the 20th century’s greatest hits: machine guns, poison gas and Adolf Hitler, all of which have made American movies what they are today.
I am alarmed by the cries of my kinsman, Ook, and seek him out. I find him behind a large stone some paces away from our lean-to: a temporary lodging made of sticks, leaves and hides that we use on longer hunting trips.
There Ook is squatting above the ground, making his morning constitutional. I steel myself, expecting to apply suction to a poisonous snake wound or kill a stalking saber tooth cat.
Ook makes a strange sound: “Look.”
I cock my head sideways and scratch my armpit to signal that I do not understand.
Ook makes the same sound again, this time pointing down. “Look.” He then adds more strange utterances: “Look what I make.”
He perceives that I still don’t understand and stands up, pointing down at a semi-swirled pile of feces. “Poop,” he says as he points to it. “I make poop. You see.”