Oct 10, 2006

Moustache Monday - LATE!

Stucco said...
So, is the 'stache now considered "finished" and no longer deserving updates?

Actually Stucco, the 'stache is, like my tattoo, a work in progress. You know this as well as anyone, being a confirmed 'stache guy. No, the truth is thus:

I got home from work last night rather late and rather tired, and instead of taking Belle out for a walk after supper I found myself on the couch, dozing off. And so tired was I that I didn't wake up for 147 years. When I did finally come to (refreshed and bushy-tailed, and in proud possession of a truly magnificent set of handlebars) I found that I had woke in a cruel totalitarian dictatorship, wherein the Common Man was held in thrall by a cruel-faced, heavy-eyebrowed black-moustachioed figurehead called "Big Stepbrother."

This malignant dictator, other than ruling the entire country under a cruel and irascable hand, further demoralised the Common Man by preventing people from wearing any sort of facial hair at all. All forms of shaving and depillitation were completely government controlled and enforced, and clean-faces were mandatory, enforced by five times a day state-overseen shaving, so I found that I was not only a rapscallion and a scoff-law, I was also in possession of a trophy-level handlebar moustache in a land of clean cheeks. I knew what I had to do.

I became a Liberator. I donned a cool black cape, leather pants, a black T-shirt, and a black domino mask which allowed my truly monumental handlebars to flow freely, thereby allowing them to dispense justice and equality amongst these downtrodden, shaving-chapped peoples. I learned to quote various inspirational passages from John Donne, William Shakespeare and Karl Marx. I invested my 147 year old stock market fortune into a baffling variety of weapons, vehicles and a really cool studio apartment with great backlighting and plenty of pacing room, where I could brood and pose dramatically.

And then I shaped my moustachios into the thirteenth letter of the alphabet and became The People's Hero:

M For Moustache.

I started out by planting a bomb in the state-owned razorblade factory. Little did I know that the resulting explosion would send razor-sharp shards of metal scything into the local workers dormitory. But with each succeeding bit of sabatoge I improved my skills and my forethought, and went on to burn to the ground the sprawling Nair plantation, destroyed the Bahaus-inspired factories wherein the labourers worked at back-breaking aftershave filtering machines, and as a finale' I engineered the crushing blow that destroyed Big Step-Brother's tyranous regime: I set in motion the collapse of the Gillette Shaving Creme mines of West Lompock, Nebraska, where thousands of labourers slaved day in and day out, painstakingly working the unyielding stone for it's rich, creamy, skin-conditioning and cheek-protecting treasure.

When it was all said and done, and I had ensured the complete and total collapse of this cruel and evil government I set myself up as the titular head of a new government, and made of myself a wise and benevolent dictator, freely giving with one side of my moustache while helping my people learn good personal hygiene and grooming techniques with the other. And, having brought peace and happiness to my people, after a sisty-year long reign of peace and prosperity and overall hirsuteness I died, my moustaches long and grey and wise, and was buried in a state ceremony that blocked the roads for five miles.

Thousands upon thousands were my mourners, and I had eighteen nubile virgins to carry the astounding length of my handlebars, nine to a side, each dressed in hair-care professional black silk smocks, and my magnificent namesakes trailed behind the funeral carriage for almost forty feet. The procession that carried my body brought me to my studio apartment, the center of government and all things beardy, where I lay in state for five days, so that My Peoples could come and touch the carefully waxed and cared-for tips of the moustaches that liberated them before they sealed me in a glass coffin, interred in the very center of town beneath the life-sized bronze statue of my upper lip.

Or maybe I was just too lazy to deal with the camera yesterday.

2 comments:

Nancy Dancehall said...

My condolences for your death.

Where can I get the Irr Lives! T-shirt to go with my Che?

Stucco said...

That's always the way- oversleep and have to start a revolution. That's why it pays to put that 9 volt backup battery in your alarm clock. I overslept once and caused the Bay of Pigs Crisis. I apologised profusely, but was grounded anyway.