About a month ago, Tim and Joe started a pseudo-serious internet campaign to get me to re-grow my mullet.

Not grow, re-grow. 1990-1992 was a just bad time for everyone involved; I don’t want to hear it. I had a mullet from fourth to sixth grade. It was awesome.

Even better, the beginning of the mullet era overlapped was right on the tail-end of my battle with lazy eye, so I had to wear an eyepatch too. The end result was me being a miniature version of that one dude from Days of Our Lives. No photos of this exist, but rest assured that everyone’s hot older sister thought that was great. Sadly, by the time my testicles were online, mullets were passé and my eyes were more-or-less fixed. I was too young to capitalize on the situation and it still kind of hurts. Pictures of a be-mullet-ed me do exist, and you’re not getting them.

I maintained that when I was done with college, I would re-grow my mullet and live like MacGyver. Fate had a way of stopping that. My light brown leather jacket got lost, and I sold my beloved Geo, which was the closest thing to a Jeep that I could afford at the time. My life is less MacGyver-like than ever. On the other hand, I met Brian, a pilot who occasionally gets me into jams. By this logic, Stevie would then have to be Penny Parker. I’m not sure who Pete would be though.

I’d have to get hair plugs, and I’m pretty sure my insurance doesn’t cover that. Otherwise I’d have a Phil Collins mullet, and I refuse to do that, as I want to use vaginas at some point in the future.