Hell’s Mustache

Someone is illegally parked and owes me a shot

Someone is illegally parked and owes me a shot

It all began way, way back in the early a.m. of October the 31st, with boys and girls still safe in their beds, dreaming of all the glorious face paint required for their respective Mikhail Gorbachev and Mystique costumes. Pumpkins were carved, candy dishes with stocked, and the tramps had hunted down their sexy meter maid outfits. It was Halloween as usual.

Except for me. You see, in years past, I found only too late that I wished I had a mountain of facial hair to play with if needed for a costume. You can’t decide to be a convincing Magnum P.I. if you start the growing on United Nations Day (hint: October 24th). You’ve got to be shunning the Norelco at least from German Unity Day (hint: October 3rd)! So, I abandoned all razoring, shelved the Old Spice and let the hirsuteness free.

Total beard growth, just in case. I mean, why not? The options are awesome with the woolly cheek blanket stretching ear-to-ear. Do I go as the greatest drunk president in history, Ulysses S. Grant? Tap into my inner poet as Alan Ginsberg? Roll out the Hagrid?! As of Tuesday, I was still very excited at the prospects.

Mustache unparalled

Mustache par excellence

But yesterday, that fateful Wednesday, I made the horrible, life-altering decision. Instead of utilizing the full beard, I would full-on “We Will Rock You”/”We Are the Champions” Freddie Mercury this face, and go with the lights-out lip tickler of the famed, late Queen lead singer. Shit, I can karaoke the bejesus out of “You’re My Best Friend” as it is. And thankfully I’ve got that sequined jumpsuit.

But honestly, this is all neither here nor there. The decision itself no longer matters. Freddie Mercury has no more to do with this chilling account than Rollie Fingers, Earl Hickey, or Borat. It is the horror of the aftermath of this decision that will live with me to my dying day!

Before bedding down for the night, I brushed my lovely face mane, and bid it a fond adieu. First thing in the morning I would sheer it down to the lonely nose caterpillar and go off to study the lyrics to “Fat Bottomed Girls.” Seemed like a simple enough plan.

Hell, she barely pays attention to me at all

Hell, she barely pays attention to me at all

But who disagreed with this course of action, do you think? Not the dog. He was tired of my unrecognizable face, and growled incessantly when I entered a room. Not my boss. He thinks I look vaguely homeless. Not the barista at my favorite Caribou Coffee. She doesn’t give a shit what’s on my face. No, the objector, and mightily indignant about it, turned out to be my beard itself.

Laugh not, disbelievers! During the night, in secret conference happening all around my head, Beard consulted with Mustache, Chin sitting in as mediator, while Eyebrows and Errant Ear Hairs glared from obstructed angles. Rapidly Disappearing Scalp Follicles sighed wearily, just trying to hang on. No one was amused by my vicious plan of execution. Beard was walking the plank and bound for the bottom of the trashcan, with the used Q-Tips and empty Rolaids bottles. It enjoyed the camaraderie with the Sideburns and Jawbones immensely, and really hadn’t been given a fair shake, from its point of view (ITS point of view! What nonsense! It’s my face!).

So what was their diabolical plan? How was I wholly betrayed and undermined by this ragtag collection of head pieces? What sprung from this mad summit? This!

Jumpin' Jehosaphat!

Jumpin’ Jehosaphat!


Sons of bitches! I can’t see a thing! I can barely hack through a layer of this nonsense before it all twists and knots together again, leaving me in a Dumas-ian prison, born from my own pores! Even now as I type this, I’m peering through the thick forest of strands, criss-crossing and winding in an attempt to blind me and subject me to their stern will! But I won’t buckle! I will take down my oppressors and

…and I’ll….I can’t really see whati’mtypicing now. It’s in my eyes and moutha dna everythwehere! This is super gross! What the hell am i supposed to do huh?? what ? for the love of god can we just knock off the goddamnn hairing already??? Fro the love of god this is ridicujlous! Helppp! anyone! Gah!!!

hellsmustache

*Moral of the story – Freddie Mercury makes for a lousy Halloween costume. Stick to the beards and the muttonchops that you’re used to.

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