Well, thank Christ that’s over.
This whole moustache November thing needs to die a quick and painful death. Before all of you facially-adorned goons start giving me both barrels, pull the fluff and Corn Flakes out of that straggly aborted-weasel foetus on your face and listen through your eyes.
We’re a pretty self-obsessed, self-indulgent society, as the crow flies (yes, that makes no sense, but it sounds cool, so there). There’s pretty much nothing that we can’t twist from its original tragic design into something that makes us feel a bit better about ourselves – like when celebrities go and stand on the scorched earth of some desperately deprived place like Rwanda or Darfur and bleat on about how awful it is.
There’s usually some perfunctory scene where the gurning pop star or reality show dick manages to squeeze a tear or two out of their dead eyes as they prod and poke a kid with no arms or one eye.
The aberration that is Mo-vember definitely falls into this self-aggrandising category. Let me be the first to say that 1) I love facial hair (not on women), and 2) I’m not a big fan of cancer. Nothing personal, I just think it’s a bit of a prick, IMHO FYI ROFL LMFAO.
However, never the twain shall meet, as someone more clever and respected than me probably said. What reason is there to grow a moustache for one month a year, every year, until the scabby end of your putrid, suppurating life? “Well, it’s all about raising awareness about cancer.” To this disingenuous piece of propaganda I say – bollocks.
You know who raise awareness about cancer? Doctors. And cancer foundations that work around the frigging clock to raise money and awareness about cancer and cancer sufferers. And people who go door to door handing out leaflets about cancer awareness. And reputable websites on the Internet. And a billion other things that don’t need you looking like you’ve smeared sweaty faeces on your top lip.
And anyway, what’s all this knob-rot about “raising awareness” through shitty facial hair? We all know that cancer exists – it’s not like I have to switch on Magnum PI with Tom Selleck to remember that there’s this bloody disease that kills indiscriminately. Or that I have to switch on a Queen Live DVD to remember that my mate’s got nerve cancer, “Oh, I forgot about you. Thank god I got a hankering for “Under Pressure”, otherwise you’d be dead in an unmarked grave.”
There are pretty much two sole possibilities of what you will look like with your moustache: a World War Two British pilot or a sex offender.
Now, I love death from the skies as much as the next man, but the wartime-pilot moustache endeavour should be undertaken for the sole purpose of looking like a British 1940s pilot, replete with white scarf thrown over one shoulder, hat placed on the head at a jaunty angle, and phrases such as “Tally ho” and “Let’s go give Jerry what-for” said in upper-class English accents.
I can’t say I’m a big fan of sex offenders either. Maybe they’re just misunderstood, but the whole rape thing is bang out of order, IMHO FYI ROFL LMFAO.
Why don’t you do something more worthwhile with your time, like eating your own legs off for cancer awareness, or taking up voluntary house arrest for cancer awareness? And take those smug bastard looks off your face – you care neither for the wondrous moustache nor the eradication of cancer. All you really care about is being a bunch of self-indulgent cocks.
Actually, talking about sex offenders, maybe they could use it as a defence in court. “I molested this 90 year-old woman to raise awareness for bone marrow cancer,” or “I locked my daughter in the basement for twenty years and fathered children with her and some of those children died and some lived and they’re all messed up for life, but I was doing it to raise awareness for lung cancer. Ya know?”
It all makes so much disgusting sense now.