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The delicate (yet manly) art of growing a mustache

Many kids want to do great and exciting things when they grow up.  They want to be an astronaut…

The saddest day in Mr. Dogg’s life was when he received his rejection letter from NASA… but he fo-shizzled his way down the street and moved on.

Or a fireman…

Is that a hose or are you just happy to see a cat trapped up a tree?

Or a policeman…

Heck, it even made Steve Gutenberg relevant… for a little while.

But not me.  What I wanted was something more pure…

like an unblemished white flower

more significant…

like a young Alan Greenspan

What I wanted was Magnum P.I.’s mustache.

Look at it… it’s magnificent.

And, of course, when you’re a kid anything is possible.  You could even grow up to be President of the United States!

Which makes kids think they’re going to grow up to be George Washington… but Millard Fillmore is much more likely.

But genetics get in the way.  While my genes allow for me to grow a wispy chest thatch that in certain lights appears similar to Tom Selleck’s to the near-sighted, my mustache always fell way short.

There’s nothing more crushing than aiming for Tom Selleck and landing on Joe Biden. Nothing.

So, then–after the gentle mockery of friends and family–you go through the stages of grief.


This mustache DOES look sexy. (No, it does not)


“I curse you, Selleck. May you have twelve too many mustaches if I can have none!”


“Please, Sir, might I have some of your mustache? I’ll give you my first-born male child.”


(Sigh) “Everywhere I look, something reminds me of Selleck.” (Sniff)

And finally, Acceptance.

Okay, it’s possible I’m still in stage four.

So, what do you do when a mustache dream is denied?  Do you overcompensate like the gentleman above?  Do you cry out to the heavens asking, “Why me?  Why me?” Do you tape something to your upper lip?

It “worked” for Bieber.

I don’t know.  What do you think?


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