Why I Love BYU

There are so many reasons to love Brigham Young University. For starters there’s… well… um. Well they have the… hmmmm… I take it back. I can’t think of ANY reasons to love BYU at the moment. This may partially be due to the fact that I’m not particularly happy with them today. Want to hear the story? I’m sure you do.

So, I have been growing out my sexy beard again for the past few days because, well, facial hair is freakin’ sexy. Tonight, after spending the day with family and friends watching General Conference, I headed to BYU campus to perform with my swing dance team for the last time.

I showed up to the dance with just a few minutes to spare. As usual, there was the table full of three ticket-taker BYU girls dressed in blue shirts sitting at the door. Their job is to take your money and stamp your hand… also, apparently they are required to ruin at least one person’s night per weekend.

I approached the little table and pointed out my name on the guest list. It was on ‘the list’ because I was performing that evening. As I started to enter the dance, one of the girls (the particularly bitter one) stopped me to give me the news that I couldn’t enter the dance until I shaved. I informed her that I was not, in fact, a BYU student, so her rules didn’t apply to me.

She replied, “It’s a BYU event, so you have to shave if you want to participate.”

“They’ve never made me shave before, and I’ve been coming here for a year now.”

“Well, then the other people haven’t been doing their job then.” She replied snootily.

She then reached under her ‘I-Hate-Men Table of Power’ and handed me a single blade, plastic BIC razor with a bottle of crappy shaving cream. She might as well have handed me a piece of broken glass and a quart of motor oil. It probably would have done a better job.

“Oh no… I’m not shaving with that,” I said. “That’s suicide.”

“Well then you can’t come in.”

“You give me 3 of those razors. One of them will only make it through my sideburns.”

She pulled another two out of the bag. Since the performance time was drawing near, and I can only assume that my team was wondering where I was, I took the razors and headed to the nearest bathroom. Needless to say, I was pissed at this point.

After a painful 15 minutes or so of torture, I had sufficiently removed the necessary facial hair. As a result, my chin, jaw line and neck were a bloody mess. It looked like I had been attacked by a rabid badger who only eats juicy neck meat.

I made it back to the table full of embittered, unmarried BYU women seeking justice on any man who dared to get within a 30 foot radius of their table. One glance at my bloodied face and they burst into laughter. One girl even choked out an attempt at empathy.

“Awwww…” she sighed, with puppy dog eyes.

“Oh don’t EVEN pretend like you pity me. Here’s your freakin’ shaving cream.”

I slammed it on the table and walked away.

I don’t think BYU can expect me to be attending any of their events any time soon. I have never wanted to break my personal mantra of never hitting a girl so badly in my entire life. Nothing would have given me more happiness tonight than to see that girl dangling from a flagpole by her granny-panties.

Nothing is worse than a cold-hearted, prudish BYU coed who doesn’t appreciate a nicely groomed face of scruff.

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