Scot points out that your cheap, uncomfortable paper towels may be turning your employees against you. Indeed, this gentleman has already acquired both the demeanor and moustache of the Communist. In other news, were you aware that you can catch Fascism from public restroom toilet seats? Believe it.
Bertha’s father is not one to let just any boy marry his lovely, buxom daughter, and he is certainly not willing to entertain the idea of giving her to some lazy, ne’er-do-well artist. No, he must prove that he is worthy; that he is a man. Witness, then, the trials of Bertha’s would-be husband and read on in wonder a story of moustaches, drum solos, and motorcycles.
Warren’s wonderfully groomed moustache had served him well in the years previous to his appointment as Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis in 1886, accompanying him in the tunnels under Jerusalem, during the 1877 Transkei War in Africa, and his investigations into the disappearance of Professor Edward Henry Palmer’s archaeological expedition in the Sinai in 1880.
His time as Commissioner was to prove its greatest challenge, however. The Metropolitan Police had degenerated into a sad state under the watch of Sir Edmund Henderson, which didn’t endear it to a city who, since its inception, seemed to loathe its existence purely on principle. For example, officers were required to wear there uniforms at all times, even when at home, for fear that they would act as agent provocateurs if allowed to wear plain clothes. In 1829 an officer by the name of Joseph Granthem was beaten and killed while trying to interrupt a fight between two drunks. His death was ruled a “justifiable homicide” by the jury at the inquest.
Warren would try to improve the force but he would be hampered by constant battles with the Henry Mathews, Secretary of the Home Office throughout his tenure. He would also prove to be quite unpopular with much of the press at the time, and the events in Trafalgar Square on November 13, 1887, known as Bloody Sunday, would turn them against him permanently. It was, to say the least, an uphill battle.
If Bloody Sunday didn’t cement Warren’s place in the history of London then a series of murders in the district known as Whitechapel, by a fiend who would come to be known as Jack the Ripper, beginning on August 31, 1888 would do it instead. The first victim, Mary Anne Nichols, a prostitute, was found in front of a gated stable entrance in Buck’s Row. The second victim, Annie Chapman — born Eliza Ann Smith, also a prostitute — was found on this date in 1888, a Saturday, near a doorway in the back yard of 29 Hanbury Street, Spitalfields. Three more women would be slain before his spree ended in November and neither Sir Charles Warren, nor his elegant moustache, would be able to bring the Ripper to justice.
It’s maddening. Consensus in the Ectoffices is that steampunk jumped the shark sometime early this year, and yet I cannot stop my claws from involuntarily clutching, covetously, at shirts like these.
Last week, while the rest of the staff suffered under the harsh, pungent glare of The Gauger’s awakening, I was continuing my annual tour of New England, a beautiful land from which I can flee in less than a day’s time when, invariably, the sun and other humans wear my sanity down to a raw nub. This year I was in the lilliputian state of Vermont, which plays host to rolling hills, rolling hills with cows, and W.A.S.P.s, who, if they roll, did so out of sight.
While traipsing though the cow-laden countryside, we came into the town of Barre which can claim one of the Northeast’s more elaborate cemeteries. Here immigrant stonemasons from Italy and Spain settled, working their magic upon the granite from the surrounding hills. It was here, after having soaked in the majesty of a solid granite stock car and having been admonished for forgetting the face of Jesus by a couple of verbose pyramids, that I noticed the first stony visage, bearing that most glorious of facial adornments.
So it began. Our excitement at having espied our first moustache barely contained, we stood, scanning the horizon. She noticed one and immediately set off for it. In this manner it continued, we facial hair connoisseurs, gazing determinedly into the distance before one or the other gesturing at a specific point, letting loose an exuberant cry of “MOUSTACHE!”, before gleefully bounding off, past the massive stone phalli rising majestically into the air, to capture its image.
Not the most appropriate behavior for such a place, perhaps, but we did not care, for with nothing but the stoic faces of long dead gentleman to censure us, and our jubilant cries swallowed up by the drone of the caretakers’s lawnmowers, I have no doubt that we did little to disrupt that place, leaving it no less reserved than when we came upon it.
Professor NifNak “has harnessed the forces of SCIENCE and ART to create the world’s first completely realistic prosthetic mustachio!” These moustaches are made from 100% Merino Wool, and fasten to the wearer’s nasal septum with magnetic clips. They come in an array of styles from that old mainstay, “The Handlebar”, to the impressively pendulous “Zeppelin” which almost requires a top hat.
They should have just let Romero’s glorious moustache shine through, untouched. Running around made up like a clown is one kind of crazy, but running around made up like a clown with a moustache is a whole, different level of batshit insane.
Any commenter who posts “Why so serious?” gets fed to the weasels. You’ve been warned.
Now here is an excellent idea for those of us with the inability to adorn our upper lip with a hirsute accessory: a silver, prosthetic moustache. Think of it as a moustache monocle in the style of Tycho Brahe’s famed faux proboscis. Better still, I imagine combining this with an actual monocle, thereby increasing tenfold my ability to look shocked as both my eyepiece and moustache fall from my face when I gasp.
What happens when you give the new customized Hot Wheel van to toy maker supreme Doktor A and tell him to go nuts? Pure, unfettered awesomeness in miniature, befezzed form; complete with luxurious, metal moustache. Oh how I want this little, riveted wonder for myself.
Another very popular Pimba artist is Quim Barreiros. […] In most of his songs, Barreiros makes extensive use of ambiguous words, often with obvious sexual suggestions. One of Quim Barreiros’ biggest hits was “A Garagem da Vizinha” (The [Female] Neighbour’s Garage), which is a metaphor for the female genitalia, but he is also known for hits such as “Mariazinha”, where he asks a woman named Mariazinha to let him smell her “codfish”.
Clearly, Jon Adams had Ectomo in mind when designing this piece for McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern, a publication that has piqued my interest by dint of its quaint name alone.
“This video, while absolutely terrifying from a psychological perspective, is essential for your forthcoming Moustache Monday.”
As this post illustrates, we are in complete agreement with Mr. Gilmore, however, it was only upon careful scrutiny of this clip from Spanish television show Esta noche… Fiesta, that I was struck with an epiphany. Watching those moustachioed dancers — male and female alike, moustachioed — writhe in unison, clad in bold yellow and black attire I realized that I was witnessing a message sent from the past, a portent of things to come. In a moment I understood that I was watching not just a television clip but one of the glorious dance numbers from Ectoplasmosis!: The Musical.
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.
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.
