Why, hipster? Why are you growing that ratty little moustache? Oh I know: the same reason you do any damn thing. Irony. Or is it post-modernism? I’m not sure. I am sure of this: it’s time you took a good, hard look at yourself. Son, I’m sorry to break this to you, but you are just not Moustache Material.
Before you opt to spare the patch of frizzy, pube-like growth on your upper lip from the ministrations of your Mach 3, ask yourself a question: am I a Moustache Man? If you do not know what makes a Moustache Man, you have no right to wear a moustache. But since I am doing this as a public service, I will give you some hints: Bert Reynolds. Tom Selleck. Friedrich Nietzsche. Joseph Stalin. Do you truly believe your name can be uttered in the same breath as those paragons of pogonotrophy? No.
Here’s the thing: you’re a pussy. A dork. A gaywad. A wimp. You are the kind of guy who would get shoved into lockers and garbage cans by guys who had grubby little ‘staches way back in Grade 9. Do you think your liberal arts degree and “career” as DJ-cum-American Apparel sales associate makes you less of a faggot* today? Do you think growing a moustache now will give you the same air of pre-teen menace as your middle school tormenters? It does not. You weigh 103 pounds and you are wearing girl pants.
I will not dither any further, but ask you this: please shave. Now. If not now, as soon as possible. Don’t make me hold you down and drop a loogie into your mouth or something. Shave, and then we’ll talk about pulling your goddamn pants up.
*Ironically, burly homosexuals are among the only true Moustache Men around. Bless ‘em.
No comments:
Post a Comment