Though sweat pours off his forehead like a waterfall of pride and shame, his Mullet of Pricelessness shall overcome without the help of an Aquanet injection. His secret lies within an immovable commitment to the absence of hygeine, follically speaking. He is a man of the outdoors and oddjobs; overgrown lawns cower in his presence, methheads bow at his girth, Jesusfreakz zone out in his spiritualism. Thus, the natural baptism of sweat sprung daily from his body gives his quaff daily support in the form of pure human grease. The formative agent keeping this modern feat of Pure Southern Man together is oozing from his pores: he is, in essence, a cesspool on a three week bender. There is no need for hair gel within in this man's world, nor is their time for it; grease of man is all that is required to keep this writhing existence aflame. Speaking in tongues, he wags his head about catapulting tears and sweat across the burnt out front lawn of his trailer. While the Mullet stays solid, the obese women and small children of the trailer park lose they're shit while staring at this abomination in awe.
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