When I was a youngin’, my Saturday mornings always started off with a few hours worth of Looney Tunes. Most kids my age probably admired Bugs Bunny’s crafty antics, or Elmer Fudd babbling away about “wabbit season.” The fat kid in all of us had a soft spot for Porky the Pig, and as a young American, I held an especially strong disdain for the stinky-assed Frenchman, Pepe Lepew.
However, there was one character above all that I admired most. I’m referring to Yosemite Sam, the gun-slinging outlaw with a big hat and even bigger facial hair. When half of your face is a mustache, you command respect in any saloon you walk into. I bet my old pal Sam used to slay cowgirls and indian squaws alike. As I grew older, I anxiously awaited the day that I too would finally be able to grow a pronounced, perfectly prickly, flavor saver.
My first experience with my own ‘stache came during Greek Week my freshman year. I was chomping at the bit to make an impact in a big way, and my chosen objective at the time was to rock a fuzzy caterpillar below my nose. As a barely 19-year-old J.I., I was free to “go for it,” but little did I know that great mustaches do not come over night.
I settled for a half-assed, barely visible “shitstache” with some Just For Men dye slathered on. The freshman girls I was pursuing couldn’t tell the difference, but deep down I vowed to do better the next year. Poor planning spells disaster for any first-timer, and having a good mustache is worth the effort. It can be the difference between looking like a champion and looking like you bobbed for apples in a messy toilet.
Let’s face it, there is nothing better than some properly placed lip spinach. As a member of my fraternity’s rush team, I fully embraced the idea that nothing gets a rushee’s blood pumping like a great mustache. The moment he lays eyes on your mouth brow, his peach-fuzzed lips prickle in anticipation for the face glory he will someday sprout, barring the fact that he will soon be a subhuman, turd-smoking pledge, and any chance of achieving anything during that time will surely be in vain, but I digress.
The fact is, sporting a mustache is the ultimate power play. When a woman notices your dirt squirrel, she will flock to you quicker than you can say “French tickler.” There’s just something about the masculinity pulling at their loins like a fuzzy face magnet.
Whether it’s a picture of their mom’s first swap party back in the 80s, or that nude poster of Burt Reynolds their crazy aunt has in her attic, females have been wired to associate mustaches with manliness. If you choose to sport your own ‘stache, you are one step ahead of the game in getting a gal’s attention.
The ability to grow a healthy bit of lip lettuce is directly correlated to the fact that you have a penis, and that you are old enough to know how to use it. It’s science. The most amount of play I’ve ever gotten was during a two week time period as a mustached machismo. I was sad to shave the thing, because as my uncle once told me in Vegas, “You never walk away from the table when you’re on a heater.” Then again, all good things must come to an end.
Be warned: not all women are committed to the ‘stache. Some assert that they’re downright “creepy.” However, the silent majority vastly outnumbers the outspoken few. So what if you look like you aren’t allowed within 100-feet of school zone? I guarantee that your cookie duster makes a great accessory to your “Sexy Joggers and Rugged Loggers” date party. I guarantee that mustached guys see an increase of at least .150 points on their intramural batting average. I can also attest that my mustache has guided me through many close calls as an under-the-influence minor.
My relationship with my mustache has been quite a ride, no pun intended. It has been a beacon of honor and a designation of respect, but above all it has shaped my personality. There’s a certain mix of “zero fucks given” and lighthearted playfulness that comes together as an incredibly stout, yet smooth cocktail of mustached manhood.