Profiling The Profile

As much as I would love to compose an eloquent piece on a series of pictures seen  on the Facebook profile page belonging to a manager of one of the TharpSter satellite offices, I find myself at a loss for words.

I know, I’m just as shocked as you are.

Naturally, it would seem that such an array of pictures littered with various levels of the cute and cuddly were placed there by a tender young soul whose life is resplendent with hope for a bright and shiny tomorrow filled with unicorns, rainbows, and uplifting melodies.

As much as we would like to believe that the dream is still alive, please don’t be disheartened as I deliver the sad news.

It’s not.

Harken back my dear and beloved reader to the film Citizen Kane.


‘Nuff said.

If I have to explain the meaning of that movie or just what the hell Rosebud stood for in that Orson Wells magnum opus then my work here in your life is much more needed than what you think it is.  In addition, please take note of the fact that I italicized the bitchin’ Latin phrase in the previous sentence.  Latin phrases don’t achieve the level of “bitchin'” until they get italicized, especially by me.  That’s just the way it is.

Now that we’ve gotten that non sequitur comment out of the way, let’s get back to why we’re here.

At least three of the pictures on that particular Facebook profile represent a lost sled for the enigmatic social networker who uploaded them.  I don’t know what’s with the dog (prone to getting it’s ears dyed pink) and the purple Q-Bert looking thing.  I’m thinking butterscotch vodka may be involved though.

What I do know that you may not have figured out yet, is that the pictures don’t belong to the TharpSter equivalent to any of the six kids from the Brady Bunch.


The owner of those photos is an unattached male in his forties who longs for escape from a life of normalcy in favor of providing high quality massages to clientele with just enough disposable income to take cruises in the oceans and seas all over the world.

Right now, he’s probably sitting in a sports bar with friends getting a major piece of wood as he watches the so-called “America’s Team” get their collective asses handed to them by a division rival on NBC’s Sunday Night Football.

Pretty typical.  Don’t you think?

Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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