Mark May's goatee died sometime in the last week at the age of twoish, cut down in a few snips by cruel blades in a bathroom somewhere in the vicinity of Bristol, Connecticut. The killer is believed to be May himself, and though his motives are unknown, there is some speculation: too much grey peeking through the southern hemisphere of the goatee, a general fatigue with the facial hairstyle, and a sudden reaction to the realization that the goatee is the mustache of the IPhone generation, and not in that good, ironic way, either.
The goatee accomplished much in its short life. It served as the launching pad for a thousand smirky moments of analysis, serving as the Cape Canaveral for Titan IV-scale rockets of smug. It caught countless crumbs of food and drink for later consumption by its master. Most importantly, it served as a Fart Pipe of sorts for May's 12-cylinder engine of self-satisfaction, embellishing his already substantial aura into a force field of vaingloriousness.
We at EDSBS pour one out for the Mark May Peltstache. Indeed, the world is less smug place today for its absence. Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves...