The muscular mustache lobby, known for its agenda of stubbornly seeking political advantage for the hairy-lipped, plans on putting two million boots on the ground in an effort to secure political advantage over clean-shaven Americans.
This is clearly another example of a noisy minority squawking to secure its so-called rights. Growing a mustache is choice, not something "innate" or "inherited," as stache sympathizers are wont to claim. Personal histories, in which mustached men are heard to say they knew they were "different" at a very young age are just that--stories. Men who say they wouldn't play "shaving" with the other kids, that they would grow their hair long and force the childish tendrils under their noses to they could play "mustache" instead are just demonstrating they always wanted to be deviates.
Friends of the so-called LGBTW (Large, Goatee-combo, Blonde, Toothbrush, Walrus) mustache community, like the notorious Lady Gaga (rumored to sport a black Zorro stache in her upcoming video) and their support for the "born this way" flaunting of this unnatural lifestyle are encouraging the mustached to "come out of the barbershop" and agitate for their so-called "rights" in normal society. In the last century, when maladjusted mustached males confined themselves to the "beard barrio," venturing out to work at jobs that seemed especially suited for their kind (stevedores, chefs, motorcycle cops) during the day and gathered at their notorious bars only at night, where they listened to ZZ Top tribute bands, the situation was tolerable, but the proliferation of "Stache Pride" days, during which the excesses of the mustache lifestyle are reveled in and now this projected march of a million unshaven upper lips upon the Capitol calls for normal Americans to stand up and say "Enough!"
Don't think of me as just another stache-hater. I am almost shamed to say this now, but I once had a mustache. Sure, I told myself it wasn't my fault. Sure, I thought that my fantasies as a young boy of sporting lip hair when I was older made my lifestyle choice inevitable. Naturally I thought my inability to touch myself below the nose with a razor was "genetic." I hung around the bars, enjoying the company of the older women that fawned upon we mustached boys, the so-called "stache bags." But I knew it was wrong. Just one look at the older guys told me there was no future in wearing a mustache, as they dyed and trimmed and plucked at their grey whiskers all alone. And it wasn't only them. There were the public figures that lived their lives in bewhiskered promiscuity. I'm talking Wilford Brimley, Mike Ditka, and saddest of all, Mr. T.
So I changed. And I give the credit to the Big G. You know who I'm talking about. The Man Upstairs. The guy who sits as CEO of Gillette. He gave me the courage, and the instruments, to shave the hair away from my lip. Actually, he gave me the courage to shave my head entirely, but that's another post.
Whether the mustache in question is a Snidely Whiplash, a Fu Manchu or an Adolf Hitler, whether it is brushed, waxed and stroked every day or just a neglected repository for cracker crumbs, it represents a slap in the face to right-living, clean-shaven Americans everywhere.
I call for a counter-march. On the sacred ground of our nation's capital we normal Americans will clash with these maladapted mustachios. Bearing no weapons but cheap, store-brand disposable razors and a truckload of toilet paper to staunch the wounds of the misguided, we will in one day rid the nation of a million patches of self-regarding fur. We will do so in a spirit of forgiveness and magnanimity, like Lincoln under whose statue the struggle will take place, keeping in mind at all times we hate the mustache, not the wearer.