An Announcement To People Who Put Mustaches On Things: Fuck you

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I would like to think of myself to be, generally, of a level-headed disposition. In most situations where the majority of people would lose their cool, I tend to be the lone voice of reason in a sea of blood-thirty rage. Nevertheless, I have to admit that there are a few things, a few situations, which do nothing but send my ire through the roof. Possibly the highest on this list would be that of motherfucking assholes putting mustaches on things.

I would like to make it clear how far my rage encompasses by stating that typing the previous sentence caused me to vomit. I do not mean that in any metaphorical sense, as if typing the words only made me feel extreme discomfort. I actually vomited. I am now continuing this article sitting in a rapidly cooling pool of my own bile.

To the uninitiated, there has been recent trend of placing mustaches (be it drawings, or facsimiles) on various objects, animals, and parts of the human anatomy. Known as “staching,” it originated within colleges and other youth based communities as far back as 2005. Generally facilitated by what was deemed to be the “hipsters” of the time, the main usage was that of drawing a mustache on your finger. When placing said finger over one’s upper lip, the illusion of possessing this form of facial hair would them come into fruition, rendering the user unrecognizable.

While this activity was largely considered to be retarded, most people thought this was to be nothing but a passing fad, like slap bracelets, pogs, or condoms. Unfortunately, like many aspects of youth culture, the ‘staching craze was filtered into the mainstream.

Mass produced ‘staches of all shapes, sizes, and colors started to find themselves on store shelves, and in our children’s closets. The once noble profession of hand crafted fake mustaches - solely for the purpose of historical reenactment and convincing people that you are yourself from ten years in the future, having traveled back in time - was replaced. Large corporate mustache emporiums popped up in town after town, putting the smaller mom ’n’ pop stores out of business.

Now we stand, seven years later, in a sea of dystopian facial hair. There are mustaches on phone cases, shirts, and necklaces. The spools of stickers became so abundant that they could feasibly be used as a new, more annoying, form of currency. And the worst iteration, the worst infringement upon all that is beautiful and right in the world, is the car ‘stache - a four feet long, and often brightly colored moustache placed on the front of a car, providing the appearance of a vehicle driven by a fucking idiot.

If I see you driving one of these abominations, I can assure you that I will enter a state of blind rage. I will run at you with everything I have, in an attempt to defeat your vehicle. However, I will make no attempt to harm you personally. In fact, I may not even take note of you (the person inside the beast) as I will be too busy foaming at the mouth and shaking my fists in impotent fury.

If you or one of your loved ones have succumbed to this plague, I recommend you rethink your position. There is a war coming. Ask yourself: Are you sure you’re on the right side?

Finally, to those with actual mustaches: you’re on warning.

Caleb Finch

The TARDIS, 517 Natoma, San Francisco, Ca 94103, USA

Caleb Nathan Friedrich was born in a small coal mining town in northern Pennsylvania to his biological parents Gretchen and Ivan Friedrich. Being the Friedrich’s eleventh child, and seeing the steady decline of Ivan’s health, Caleb was dropped into the, then tumultuous, foster care system. When he turned sixteen he gathered what few items he had and set out to make his mark on the world. Forging false identification and assuming the surname Finch, he was able to talk his way into position for the world renowned San Francisco Inquisitor. He went on to become the newspaper’s longest running editor and chief, and has had many printed collections, including The Time I Spent and The View From the Engine Room. In 1943, Caleb passed away by succoming to his long and painful fight against Butt Aids. It is belived by some that his ghost still haunts different locations in San Francisco, and that it's sort of a dick.