Like buying a VCR in 2005, my Particularly Shit Moustache
and I made some questionable life decisions last night. If It were able, It
would bristle indignantly at the memory, but the best my Particularly Shit
Moustache can do is commit to a barely distinguishable quiver if the breeze and
light align perfectly enough to find the surprisingly rigid blonde strands and
stir them to movement.
My
Particularly Shit Moustache seems to have little memory of what actually
transpired, though the scent of beer and the feeling of self-loathing
permeating It, gives away the gist of Its involvement in my activities: a slightly
furry filter between my mouth and alcohol, convinced of Its own notion that it
keeps out bad spirits. This morning, however, neither of us believed that any
evil apparitions were successfully kept out. My Particularly Shit Moustache
needs to work on this aspect of Its being if It is to be an active and valued member
of my face.
Unfortunately
what can be assured, is that my Particularly Shit Moustache received no
compliments.
I placated
It this morning by shaving the rest of my face, thus highlighting my
Particularly Shit Moustache. It now has The Place of Honour on my face. My
Particularly Shit Moustache is pleased with this development and has made it
clear that It expects to always be treated so. Basically it wants to be catered for like a penguin in Norway.
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