I have a mustache. Right now. Right now I do. It’s on my face right now being a mustache, making me look like a state trooper, or a gay porn star, or a gay state trooper.
Right now.
This thing is terrifying. I can’t even take a halfway flattering picture with it. Smiling… Half-smiling… Deadpan… Thoughtful… There’s simply no positive light one can cast upon oneself that outweighs the total doucheness prerequisite in wearing one of THESE on one’s stupid, unbearable face.
It’s like having an alien parasite stuck to your lip. It’s breathing in your life force and draining your soul but if you rip it off you’ll die. YOU’LL FREAKING DIE!
Right now I can live with it, but I have work on Wednesday and if this thing isn’t gone by then I’m in trouble. Work is less than a block away from a popular gay club, and I already get hit on more than I’d like (which is to say, at all). This creature on my face would raise a flag — there’s an L in that word, flag — to every gay guy in the area. Worse than a rainbow scarf, worse than an earring in the wrong ear, worse than a tattoo on my forehead that reads “I suck dick”, worse than a white pair of pants, it would say, “hey everyone, come hit on bald Freddie Mercury!” I could deepen my voice and harangue my would-be lovers about my current (imaginary) girlfriend and no one would be fooled. It would be open season.
And it’s not that I’m homophobic. I was once hit on by a girl, and that sucked too. But women tend to flirt, and that I can take. Men are more aggressive, and the only kind of men that would hit on me, a man, would be the gay kind.
And, well, getting hit on at work sucks. You can’t escape. You just have to smile politely and wait for them to leave. It’s flattering but awkward. Is this how women feel when I hit on them? (If I ever hit on them, I mean.) No. It can’t be. I’d have to hit on them while I was wearing this retarded mustache. Then they would know how it feels.
Dear God, the interblog says Wednesday is “Gay Punk Rock Tiki Night”. I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound promising.
Right now my only defense is a profound sense of irony. Something that says, “Yeah, I look ridiculous, but that’s funny. This mustache is funny.” I could maybe wear a member’s only jacket and blast Journey out of my headphones.
…No, that makes me sound even more gay.
Right now I have a mustache. On Wednesday I will not.
Posted by Dan 
For the period of 1 year I kept track of my catchphrases. It came naturally, I simply recognized when I was saying something so much that it reached a “catchphrase” level of over-saturation. From there, all it took was a simple excel spreadsheet, some free time, and a willingness to admit that I’m utterly pathetic.
This is a surreal movie. Not because Michel Gondry is a prankster of an art designer who exclusively makes films that are dreamscapes. But because, god damn it, I worked in that video store. No, not the titular video store, but West Coast Video, the rival. The manifestation of corporate evil. I wore the light blue denim uniform. I hung the cheap purple and yellow paper signs on the walls. I alphabetized the DVDs. My video store is in a Michel Gondry movie. Weird.
Surely, you are aware that Will Ferrell’s schtick is growing tiresome. 
You know who’s repetitive? 
CGI monsters √
It was a movie that had everything going for it. It had Jason Statham, star of 
And another thing. The 
The Frylock is such a beautiful thing that many people forget its original purpose is to be eaten. Don’t make the Frylock feel bad. Put it in your mouth and taste the potato/cow wonderful.
People who don’t like to swear (Tipper Gore, my Mom, you know the type) tell me that I’m lazy. That I should be finding more creative ways of communicating rather than simply resorting to “F this” and “S that”.
