Rallying Cry Protest Protest, speakout, rail! Act!

Reject the cartridge! Poor quality blades, two dollars a piece. Reject canned goo! Unnatural smells, numbing agents. Scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape. A better shave with obsidian and fat. Reject burning faces, rashes, and blood on the collar. Reject the siren of marketing- five is not better than four, better than three, better than two. Countdown- five, four, three, two- one is the only one you need! One blade, machined with care, shiny, (razor) sharp. Treet, Tiger, Feather, Dura, One fifty for ten, not ten for five. Embrace the gestalt. First, hot water. Then, a brush, profuse with lather. Rose, lavender, citrus. Menthol. Soft. Soapy. Hot. Smooth! Upon your face, the brush and lather coaxing your beard to attention, The menthol a continuing cool upon your face, tickling your smell, making the cat sneeze. Grab your shaving instrument rescued from the scrap heap of Aunt Polly’s Interesting Junk shop, loaded with just ONE blade. Blue Tip, SuperShave, Merkur, Weishi. Glide. No pressure. No pain. Like shaving a peach. Like shaving a balloon. Shaving, not scraping. The sound of ice being scratched resonating along your jawline. With the grain, against the grain. Rinse blade. Lather. Repeat. The civilized man emerges. A bracing splash of Floid, Porasso, Tabac, or Anherb. No sissified, over-priced scent-of-the-month. Leave those to the metrosexuals. Join the underground. Transform the morning! Electric? Blasphemy!