Coconut

My uniformly fuzzy muff of a hair-do was dented from a night on the sheets. I look like a coconut that's been beaten out of shape by a hungry, but mentally retarded ape. No, scratch that. I look like a hungry and mentally retarded ape. I must admit, I haven't been paying a whole heap of attention to standards of personal presentation and hygiene.

There are now permanent dirt-stains on my feet, my eyebrows have met in the middle for the first time since year 8, and my right armpit (and strangely only the right) has taken on the odour of some kind of industrial solvent - acrid and metallic. It's very much unlike my regular odour of heat-sweat cheeses and thick oily beer - I smell like a Belgian deli on a hot day.

It is Mo-vember again (a month of moustache cultivation, for the uninitiated). Participants take the month to grow their most styling facial hair for presentations and parades on the 30th. Some use it to raise money for charity, others to shelter small birds. I once heard that a man successfully cross-bred his moustache with a guinea pig. I myself 'stache for sport. The sport of repulsing chicks.

Unless you're over forty, a police officer or a woman of the Mediterranean you probably shouldn't wear a moustache. There are some young guys today who can get away with a moustache in that cool, retro, ironic kind of way. So square it's hip. Sadly I am not one of these guys. I look like an accountant who wears a moustache for the sub-conscious purpose of alerting the world he is some kind of repressed leather-daddy. I can't have that - I think the buttless chaps are signal enough.

Still, I don't care. Vanity motivates only one thing for me in Maningrida; exercise. I'd love to say that I'm out sweating away the body fat and accumulating muscle mass like it was porn, but that's just not true. I'm barely sweating away the oily build-up in my pores and only accumulating a fine layer of dust... on my porn. I only ever exercise if I happen to catch a glimpse of myself and think, ‘ooh, I look a little bloated today.’ That’s the regime.

But today the internet told me that I don’t even have to worry about that anymore. I have an IQ of 138. It must be true because I did the test without even cheating. That means my Intellectual Type is 'Visionary Philosopher' - which I'd somehow always suspected anyway. It means I am 'highly intelligent and have a powerful mix of skills and insight that can be applied in a variety of different ways'. I guess they factored in my ambi-dexterity. These IQ tests get a really thorough insight from 50 questions of basic comprehension.

'Like Plato', my 'exceptional math and verbal skills' make me 'very adept at explaining things to others' - you dipshits getting this?? I am also great at 'anticipating and predicting patterns'. That's why I bought those tartan slacks - in anticipation of the Fall season. Wheneverthefuck Fall is. Surely these are all talents and traits I can utilise while being fat and ugly.

138 is such a great IQ to have. You have all the pleasure of being smarter than lots of people, yet none of the depressive and suicidal effects of the pressure of being a genius. It suits me. It's a load off to know that I never have to deal with those tossers from MENSA, and that I've been quite rightly looking down my nose at... the very end part of my nose. I can put my dented coconut to bed tonight knowing that I'm much smarter than your average retarded ape, and twice as hungry.