Being from the South means you can never wear an ironic mullet. I'm a big cornfed guy from the South, so whenever my hair starts to get a little long in the back I almost have a panic attack. If I'm broke, I'll sell bone marrow to have enough money to get my hair cut. I won't have a mullet, by god.
However, if I had been a little more motivated (and a lot smarter) and became a heart surgeon, I would have a rich, flowing, Cyrusesque mullet. I'd spend hours each morning feathering out the ends, just for the awkward encounters with the people I was about to cut open.
"Hi, folks. I'm Dr. Pharris. I'll be performing the quadruple bypass on you, Mr. Jones." For added effect, I'd exaggerate my Southern accent until I sounded like a cross between Foghorn Leghorn and Cletus the slack-jawed yokel.
The patient would stare at first, and finally speak up. "You're the doctor?"
"First in my class at Johns-Hopkins."
"You have a mullet."
"I'm sorry," I'd say. "I'm not familiar with that term."
He'd look at me incredulously. "Mullet...you know, 'business up top, party in the back.'"
"Is this a come-on, sir? I'm happily married to Jessica Alba and Eva Mendes." (A boy can dream.)
He'd become angry. "Your hair. I'm talking about your hair."
"You like it? It cost me $100 at Euphoria."
"You paid a hundred bucks to look like that?"
"Enough chit-chat. Time for me to saw through your chest plate and fiddle with your ticker."
After that he'd run screaming into the night. I'd go home to Jessica, Eva, and a glass of bourbon.
For that, I'd sport a mullet, baby.
However, if I had been a little more motivated (and a lot smarter) and became a heart surgeon, I would have a rich, flowing, Cyrusesque mullet. I'd spend hours each morning feathering out the ends, just for the awkward encounters with the people I was about to cut open.
"Hi, folks. I'm Dr. Pharris. I'll be performing the quadruple bypass on you, Mr. Jones." For added effect, I'd exaggerate my Southern accent until I sounded like a cross between Foghorn Leghorn and Cletus the slack-jawed yokel.
The patient would stare at first, and finally speak up. "You're the doctor?"
"First in my class at Johns-Hopkins."
"You have a mullet."
"I'm sorry," I'd say. "I'm not familiar with that term."
He'd look at me incredulously. "Mullet...you know, 'business up top, party in the back.'"
"Is this a come-on, sir? I'm happily married to Jessica Alba and Eva Mendes." (A boy can dream.)
He'd become angry. "Your hair. I'm talking about your hair."
"You like it? It cost me $100 at Euphoria."
"You paid a hundred bucks to look like that?"
"Enough chit-chat. Time for me to saw through your chest plate and fiddle with your ticker."
After that he'd run screaming into the night. I'd go home to Jessica, Eva, and a glass of bourbon.
For that, I'd sport a mullet, baby.
21 Comments:
"Fiddle with yer ticker."
hehehehehehehe
andi,
A mulleted surgeon would be great. I wanted to be a fat guy who wrote a weight loss book, but Dr. Phil beat me to it.
shaken,
I usually go to a place called Hair Hut or something. What do I care; you can't polish a turd.
A friend of mine went to Supercuts once. I say once because he never went back again as his head looked like it had been attacked with a beard trimmer by an escaped mental patient.
Would, as a doctor, you be wearing a hospital issued "wife beater" as well.
Previous comment deleted due to a fantsical amount of typos.
Supercuts isn't cool? Shitballs.
Todd, that Dr. Phil stuff is so true. I bet his kids are so messed up too. Oh wait, they are also shrinks.
Brilliant. And I'm sure Eva and Jessica would appreciate your hair.
So, is this a daydream or something you ACTUALLY dreamed of while sleeping?!
How do you come up with this stuff?
(And yes, I still visit you YNH! You're still one of my fave bloggers!)
And then you could show him the Ballcock Coupling Nut that you use to satisfy your wives. Or that you'll be inserting into his body during surgery. Whichever.
bob,
I'd have to wear scrubs during actual surgery, but yes, wifebeater for consultations.
shaken,
I wish I could blame this on alcohol, but no, I was sober; and by 2:58am when you commented, I was fast asleep.
egan,
Dr. Phil is a tool.
aughra,
they would run their hands through my hair constantly, maybe even when I operated.
mo,
I thought of this while wide awake. Sad, huh?
brooke,
the BCCN will be for my lovely wives only. And their hot actress friends they bring home. And good looking nurses.
What do I care; you can't polish a turd.
Maybe not, but you can add glitter. Which, come to think of it, explains a lot of celebrities.
I think you should add beads to the end, like Bo Derek.
I'm no Alba, but once again, a post that makes me want to make out with you.
lily,
adding glitter to a turd also explains Las Vegas.
ubie,
you would be my mullet advisor.
kris,
make out with me? That may be the wine talking. Your posts make me want to dance with you and grope you inappropriately.
molly,
he's is to mullets what OJ is to wife slaying.
ruben,
it takes balls and a lot of "Soul Glow".
Soooooooooooooooooooooul Glow!
I saw soooooo many mullets while in Spain last May, it is still very fashionable over on the other side of the Atlantic!
I used to have a mullet.
doggrrrl,
does your weakness lead to stripping and lap dances? If so, consider me a member of mullet-nation.
brooke,
just thinking about "Coming to America" makes me smile.
crystal,
In Spain they call it "el mullet", which is Spanish for "the mullet".
pants,
but that's in the past. No need to dwell on last week.
el mullet! ... bwa-hahahah!!!
Last week, ha ha.
Vegas is the mullet mecca! Livia and I were like dogs in heat following the mullets around to take pics.
mullet surgeon would be classic!!!
mo,
I'm a cunning linguist.
pants,
damn you and your sarcastic "ha ha"; I was talking about Halloween, as far as you know.
blonde,
you and Livi in heat, huh? I'm really starting to like the mullet.
indie,
I would be so busy flirting with you I'd probably mess up the diagnosis. Good thing I'm not a doctor, I suppose.
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