[30 Days to Go] Tales From The Lip

They pack their cold cuts on top of the beer in  their styrofoam coolers. This makes sense, assuming that the sandwiches are consumed before the ice melts. Of course, though, the day wears on, hands reach in the cooler for more and more beer and soon the cheap plastic baggies are now resting crumpled in a watery grave. If the stale stench of cheap beer wasn't enough, the soggy bread will get smeared -- and stuck, regrettably, in the crevasses -- in their mustaches when they do get 'round to eating the packed lunch. This is a dreadful experience, these Saturdays, trust me.

These Humans are a repulsive sort, the ones that dress in red and grey and worship the "O." I have yet to figure out how the acorn and marijuana leaf fits into the mythology of their religion. They gather in large groups on Saturdays in the Fall. They practice their faith seasonally, which seems to me a lazy sort of belief system. But I'm not complaining, no, it's this time of year when things are for the worst. Year round, it's no picnic with these people, but it is especially trying when they begin their rituals by gathering to drink beer and shout at the television in parking lots. And don't get me started on the bizarre mating call which displays their minimal proficiency at spelling.

Your species in general, though -- and please, do not take this personally, I don't mean it as a condemnation, particularly when you add in my role in all of it -- can be small minded and petty. You place far too much emotional importance upon your warriors and the battles they do against the other tribes on these fall weekends. And the beer. So, so much beer. I cannot begin to describe the awful smell that stays on you, the rank odor of your breath. It is particularly bad with the O worshipers.

As far as hygiene goes for you Humans, I have the misfortune of living among the worst. It is not only hygiene that is a concern -- and I say this with the full knowledge that the hygiene of, say, the M followers, would impede the delicate balance of my living arrangement -- it is the diet of this trollish brood. Fried foods mostly. Lots of frozen dinners, too. Whatever is easiest to get stuck in their mustaches, thats the type of food they eat. Crumbs, yes, but grease too. Grease is essential to keeping bits of food lodged in mustaches.

Why am I complaining? Well, I know a thing or two about mustaches, believe me. From big bushy mustaches like Wilford Brimley's to the thin pencil mustache of Arsenio Hall. You see a mustache is a thing of beauty and it should be well kept and groomed at all times. I've heard a name for the O worshiper's mustaches: the Buckstache. Does that sound right?

Ugh, the Buckstache. 

Anyway, it should come as no surprise to anyone that knows about this tribe, they don't respect anything -- why should they respect the 'stache? They mistreat this gift of the upper lip. This buckstache is an abused bit of facial hair, like a mangy dog -- perhaps an ironic metaphor, but don't put mange on us, man. The buckstache, it is no place to make a home. But I guess, at the end of the day, if you can get past the poor behavior of the humans whose hair we inhabit, we do make for a good match. I mean, can you imagine lice in the sweet, glorious, and lavender scented mustache of a M follower? I can't either.

[DON'T FORGET: Send us your weekly progress photos to mustaches4michigan@gmail.com.  Round-ups are posted Fridays]