Dear Charles Darwin and God,

For over a half a century, I looked in the mirror each morning and saw a pair of hairless ears — admittedly oversized, but nonetheless, utterly and completely without hair. And, between the three of us, that was just fine with me. Then on an otherwise mundane Tuesday, out of nowhere, a solitary hair popped out on the side of my left ear. I sleepily gazed at my reflection and almost without pause thought “Hmm, that’s odd.” I then yanked out the offender and went about my day.

What I didn’t know was that there had been a shift in the cosmic balance and soon this sort of thing would be no longer be “odd” at all. In fact, it would be the opposite… it would be routine. The perimeter had been breached and there was no going back. Slowly and inexorably, like a shuffling zombie hoard, they made their way to my ears. At first, it was just a couple a month — “no big deal” I thought, “just remain vigilant.” But, no, they just kept coming… and coming — in every growing numbers. Now, they’re fucking everywhere — tops, sides, lobes, even down in the canal.

At a time in my life when my hairline retreats toward the back of my head like the Union army at Bull Run, hair sprouts out of my ears like a game of “Whack a Mole” gone horribly wrong. Suddenly, a routine of auricular depilation has become a part of my daily existence and I don’t want to be rude, but I think someone owes me an explanation.

Mr. Darwin, what possible reason does your theory provide? How do my increasingly hairy ears make me a better “fit” at this stage of my life? Did they make my ancestors more likely to survive when they were cast out because they could no longer contribute to the tribe? I suppose warm ears could have been of some value in that situation. At least until they were viciously dismembered and eaten by something that they could no longer hear coming and was too fast to escape anyway.

Or, maybe, just maybe, this follicular armageddon is simply a way of ensuring that old farts like me don’t pass their worn out sperm on to any young female members of the species who might be out there wandering about. Believe me, I know. I’ve been there — talking to the attractive young woman sitting beside me on the plane. “Are you OK?” she asks. “Sure, I’m fine, why?” I respond. “It’s just that you have a dried blood all over your ear” she says. The words “Oh, thanks, it’s no big deal, I probably cut myself shaving” spew forth from my mouth like the contents of Guy Fieri’s bowels on a Saturday morning. Well done! Human race saved! Now, settle in for a long and very awkwardly quiet flight.

What about you, God? Can you clear things up for me? Is it some sort of eternal punishment for what Adam did in The Garden? The guy eats one apple and you lay this bullshit on me?” It’s a little harsh, don’t you think? I mean, it was just an apple. Plus, Eve was in on that deal too and I see plenty of women my age and all their ears look just fine. Or, I suppose this could be simply proof that you have twisted sense of humor. But, I already know about that. I’m reminded of it during every 3 am trip to the bathroom, as I stare down and say “Piss damn you, piss!”

Maybe this is a straight up case of revenge — plain and simple Old Testament vengeance — against Darwin himself for developing the whole Theory of Evolution in the first place — now that I can understand. The whole religion-versus-evolution thing certainly has caused a whole bunch of confusion and, if I may say, a considerably uproar among some segments of the human race. At the very least, it has to be maddening to watch them be so “right-wrong”/”black-white” about it — no room for compromise, no shades of gray. Who’d blame you for taking it out on Darwin? I’ve seen pictures of the guy in his old age and it’s pretty clear you hit him with quite a set of earmuffs.

Anyway, take your time, but I’d appreciate it if you two could sort it out among yourselves and get back to me. However, for now, I’m going to have to close because I’ve got another letter to write. Sir Isaac Newton has some serious explaining to do about the flying squirrel in my pants that I used to call my scrotum.

All the best,