The Somewhat Ambitious

Ah yes, the moustache. Even though I can grow one in four days and Luke can’t physically make one appear on his face (true fact!), the moustache is loved by us both. It’s gone through many different permutations over the centuries – early moustaches were pulled from the face and used to batter masatodon to death – but it’s always remained quintessentially the same*.

Nowhere, however, does the mo flourish like the fashion world of the seventies. Observe, if you will, a terrifying example of the moustache being used to beam charisma gamma-rays directly into the penises and vaginas of willing seventies youth.

I didn’t even understand half of the words being said there (did he say Crenoline? What in the name of Malcom McDowell’s fetid sack is Crenoline? If it’s on the periodic table I’ll shut up, but I sincerely doubt it is). It didn’t matter though! And do you know why? Because two slivers of groomed hair were jutting at me like sex-daggers the entire time. AND I LIKED IT.

Here, though, is the absolute peak of moustache sexiness being exploited to hock goods. You ready? Of course you’re not.

I guess the lesson here is…

I… seem to have forgotten what the lesson is. I think my frontal lobe just fused.

/Paul

*Read: creepy strip of hair above a sneering upper lip.