On the hirsute virtues of Geraldo Rivera

Yesterday, this post from my favorite fool inspired me to look up the following entry that ran, ironically, exactly three years ago today. I liked the post so much, I decided to put it up again for my newer readers' perusal.
* * *
His fans claim he is a world-renowned journalist. He was surely once a daytime television talk show host that was some unholy combination of Phil Donahue and Jerry Springer. That gig earned him a live-on-the-air broken nose, as well as shows with titles such as "Men in Lace Panties and the Women Who Love Them." He hosted a prime time special that featured the opening of Al Capone's vault, which, after two hours, revealed not hordes of jewels and mysterious piles of human bones, but instead only a beer bottle and a pile of dirt. While on assignment in Iraq, he drew a map in the sand that disclosed sensitive location information to anyone with a television and, according to some reports was subsequently barred from imbedded reporting by the Pentagon. He's been called a sensationalistic hack and a monger of trash t.v.

I don't care about any of that.

Because no matter how many "Drag Queens on Parade" he shovels onto the small screen, or freindly fire locations he bungles, or how much fat he has extracted from his buttocks for injection into his face during his telecast, the only things I can think of whenever I see Geraldo Rivera are two little words.

1. mustache.

2. ride.

This does not give Rivera a direct get-out-of-jail-free trip to the short list. It does not necessarily mean that I am amenable to said mustache ride. I simply pose this: Is there any woman out there who can take one look at Rivera and not think, tickletickletickle?

Two other notables:

-Can you identify the likely suspect in in this photo?

-And although he's not well known, surely facial hair like that found on this urban myth buster cannot go without mention.

In the end, gentlemen, all I can offer is a low raspy purrrrrrrrrrrr and the assertion, viva la facial hair.