My hetero-cubicle-roomie-for-life Ri Ri has begun complaining about the length of his mustache. He hates that he can see it when he types on his keyboard or smartphone. He hates even more that he can see his hairy reflection in his smartphone screen.
The Germanator, across the way, has said that his wife is giving him a hassle about his facial growth.It scratches her face and he is pretty sure she plans to scratch out his eyes to return the favor.
The full-court press is on and we are determined to see this thing out through to December.
Ri Ri and I were at the Vitamin Shoppe supplement store getting our workout narcotics when we saw a man with a handlebar 'stache. He nodded at us, we nodded at him, and we knew. No words were needed.
The mustachio bond knows no bounds.
Speaking of which I discovered the other day that I am following in a long line of mustachio history in regards to my family. It appears, when going through some old photos, that my late great, great, grand pappy, the barrister Archibald Higgins Denmon III, also sported the 'stache.
Great, great, grand pappy Archibald
As we draw this epic facial hair escapade to a close, I have decided to award the best lip-growth employee at my work with this stunning tribute to their testosterone prowess.
The grand prize!!
I'd say, "may the best man win," but I want to seem at least a bit modest, as at first glance it looks like I shall be rewarding myself with this amazing gold medallion of success.
Gentlemen...to the miracle grow!