This particular anthropomorphized dessert treat strikes me as decidedly untrustworthy. There is something about his shifty look, his leering lean, and his perverse, lecherous moustache that is off-putting. Needless to say, I would not trust the cone around my children, unless I was hoping to be rid of them, in which case he seems like an ideal candidate for a babysitter.
Mrs. Habersham was not what one would consider a prude, surely her extensive collection of scandalous knee length frocks — which exposed not only her ankles, but the salacious curve of her calves — could attest to this fact; and yet she could not help but feel that Mr. Habersham’s carpentry fantasies were, perhaps, a bit outside of her comfort zone.
It wasn’t that Mr. Whittingham thought his youngest daughter’s fiancé an idiot per se, but it must be said that the young man’s affinity for the incestuous musings of a certain doctor of Austrian citizenship made him wonder if, perhaps, the gentleman had been shaken a bit too roughly as an infant.
It wasn’t just the noise that bothered Mr. Whittingham; it was also the fact that, almost without fail, his next door neighbors felt the need to wax their cats in the evening, greatly diminishing his ability to concentrate on the business section.
An ode to the upper lip accessory by the Brothers Mael accompanied by a perfectly fitting video of keyboardist Ron Mael shaving of his Hitler/Chaplin ’stache. One hundred hairs make a man, indeed.
Upon first meeting Fulton I was struck by the choice of facial hair, its sparseness said —at least to me — that this was a headstrong youth whose taste was of dubious quality. My first impression of the boy was one of revulsion, I admit. Later I would be shocked to discover the fame and high regard he had earned from the other rent boys and members of my particular circle. It was only upon seeing him again — devoid of that hirsute monstrosity — that I understood why.
Bernard, John. Oscar Wilde: Images From the Life Of Britain’s Most Famous Homosexual With Commentary Taken From His Many Correspondences London: Leatherman Press, 1929.
“Having lost most of his money in pork futures, Brownlee turned once again to his favorite mistress, the emerald harlot of Paris: absinthe. It was not surprising to find him in one of Tirana’s many drinking parlors, his moustache unkempt, his trousers damp. It would be some time before he emerged from his stupor and by that time most critics agreed that his best plays were, alas, firmly behind him. Certainly no one could fault his enthusiasm for his newly rediscovered sobriety, but one had to question the new, Brechtian influences found in the abysmal March of Pygmies with its all midget cast and use of livestock.”
Waechter, Ewald. The Life and Times of John Brownlee: Being a Record of Horrid Practices and Terrible Excesses As Catalogued In His Many Letters To His Mother and Friends. Vol. 6, 1898-1930 Berlin: Barth Brüder, 1963.
Matthew Gibeault was arrested for possession of drug paraphernalia in Ida County, Idaho which, judging by his mug shot, only moments before had been filled with some sort of incredibly potent stimulant. It would be unsurprising if, after checking for any known aliases, Mr. Gibeault was found to have been responsible for a string of what police described as “mad bombings” and numerous cases involving damsels secured to train tracks with sturdy rope.
I don’t think it surprises anyone that the horror, the loneliness and ennui of the post-modern age is best summarized through the artful manipulation of the most cynically stupid and mass produced cartoon strip of the last thirty years. But who knew it could perfectly capture the spirit of Moustache Monday as well?
If you look back at the late 19th century, it soon becomes clear that there was a correlation between the rise of the velocipede and the popularity of the handlebar moustache. All of the art folios, the photographs, the cigar boxes of the time picture mustachioed hunks in brightly colored unitards and matching beanies balanced precariously upon implausible bicycles, grinding their pundendums suggestively into the handlebars with every downward pedaling thrust as they melodiously called out to the top-hatted squares around them, “Who wants, who wants a HANDLEBAR RIDE? Hup! Hup!”
Over the next century, the innuendo would become more brazen, and the moustache ride was born.
Such a magnificent moustache may strike one as a simple affectation, however this gentleman’s impressive vibrissae were undeniably helpful for nocturnal foraging, giving him the ability to navigate without the use of sight and detect air movements -much like his rodent brethren- giving him a distinct advantage over his peers.
The author of The Jungle Book and Just So Stories For Little Children, among others, and of whom Henry James famously said: “Kipling strikes me personally as the most complete man of genius (as distinct from fine intelligence) that I have ever known.” and whom, in turn, George Orwell found the stench of imperialiam. His well groomed moustache, methinks, lends credence to both claims.
In sheer defiance of the World Wide Web Consortium's will, Ectomo was designed using a non-web-standard font. Luckily, it is included in the excellent font pack released by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, which can be freely downloaded in Mac and PC formats here. Ectomo should still look fine without it, though.
