Today, I entreat you with a matter most pressing--the modern man knows nothing of the moustache. The moustache was once the symbol of testosterone borne power. In our fathers’ days, the well executed moustache could turn even the most cherubic physiognomy into a discerning scowl befitting of the shrewdest businessman. But, as I traveled across this grandest of nations, I observed the foulest of trends: the moustachioed-man was no longer the epitome of manly strength and pragmatism.
No dearest readers, the mustache had been usurped by the gangliest, sickliest, and most equivocal of our kin, the self proclaimed hipp-ster.
While trudging about, I contacted all manner of man and near man-beast. And while there were pockets of rugged fellows whose faces were adorned by the most impressive of beards, I found too often that this most disgusting of creatures-the hipp-ster--thought himself worthy of growing a robust extra wide Hungarian or a dignified Horseshoe. At first I found myself baffled, much as you must be feeling now. I had always believed that a thick hearty moustache could turn even the most quivering man-child into an infallible leader of nations. But, one after another, city after city, these hipp-sters paraded before my eyes, sporting full facial hair yet appearing as mere wisps of men. Initially I did chortle to myself as they passed. Ha! These men will never possess the gait, poise and intractability necessary to captain a ship, quell a workers revolt, or impregnate a woman. However, as it became clear that these puerile hedonists took themselves and their beards as rather serious business, as a true gentleman, I found it my duty to harangue these miscreants with much ballyhoo.
As I riled against these libertines, one of them mustered the courage to approach me. I rebuked him soundly, pointing out that the noble moustache had served his father and grandfather by warding off bears and communists, but that he would surely have been savagely mauled attempting a similar feet, the communist being a particularly ferocious opponent. I’d wager that even one of these domesticated European socialists could have soundly beaten this sorry lad like a Polish bride on her wedding day.
Oh dearest readers, I implore you, all true men must endeavor to reclaim the might conferred by the burliest of facial hair. The hipp-ster moustache is a lie, and lest our sons should never know the glory of being fully moustachioed, we must be the truth.