All my heroes have mustaches. Walter Payton rocked some lip lettuce for most of his career, and Tom Selleck had plenty of honeys taking a ride on his in the Magnum, P.I. days. Super Mario brought us a mustache that paired equally well with turtle soup or blonde poonanny. I myself am a third generation womb sweeper. My dad has had one for as long as I can remember, and so did his father before him. It’s a symbol of masculinity, and a clear sign that its wearer works hard but likes to party. It’s basically a Hawaiian shirt for your face, so you can imagine the disgust my fellow clam dusters and I feel at the idea that the ‘stache is under siege.
Between snotty hipsters who feel the need to overhype everything and the sick fucks that equate a little fuzz with kid-diddling, the most frat form of facial fur is taking some serious blows. As is the case with most things, it’s largely due to internal strife and jealousy. That fedora-wearing buffoon with some carpet above his upper lip isn’t the one calling for the abolishment of the mustache, he’s just making people assume that anyone with a flavor saver drinks wine coolers and has a schway mod in their cargo pants. The self-satisfied little bastard is worse advertising than Antonio Brown at a “Keep Kids Off Drugs” assembly. When a balding, middle-aged guy in a white t-shirt rolls up with a lazy caterpillar, the ladies don’t think about mustache rides. They think about a dark trip in a non-descript van. Those two subsets are setting back all the progress guys like Hulk Hogan and Burt Reynolds fought for, and it’s reflecting back on regular dudes who don’t think Crocs are acceptable apparel.
Then there are the outside influences. Guys who can only grow chin straps are usually the first ones to throw a little grief, but their comments only come from a place of deep inferiority and self-loathing. Sorry you have low T, guy who I’m assuming is named Gage. The worst of it comes from women who find the mustache to be dirty. Their own misgivings move weaker men to shamefully shave their best friends, giving those cold-hearted witches exactly what they want. It’s a power trip stemming from a personal preference. If she doesn’t want to hop on the Harley, chances are she’s not about a clean seat either. Just because she waxes her upper lip in disgust once a month, that doesn’t mean you have to.
Therein lies the struggle, but it’s an easy one to cope with. If you like your mustache, don’t let anyone tell you whether or not to have it. Be a damn man and keep your upper lip toasty. This isn’t the first time the style has fallen under fire, and it won’t be the last. Remember that Hitler asshole? He laid such a taboo on the toothbrush mustache that even Charlie Chaplin gets ripped on for it. He might have ruined one way to wear it, but he sure as hell didn’t take away the whole shebang. If a monster like him couldn’t make people stop having style, then no IPA-swilling, shit music-listening virgin with a vape will either. Keep up your mustache shaming if you want, because it’s just not working any more..