PETER DAVIS

The Fake Mustache

Mustache Jokes

The Fashionable Mustache

Hitler’s Mustache: One Mustache Aspect

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE FAKE MUSTACHE

 

 

This mustache leads you to believe that a mustache is not what you think but something exceedingly more mustache. As a mustache, with matching eyebrows, sideburns and pubic hair, this mustache knows a new sorrow. It is sick with its mustache lie.

 

Understand. A whole mustache has grown on my tonsils, a mustache thatches the roof of my tongue. Mustache in every spoonful of soup and in every toothbrush.

 

Sore, on his ass, a real fuck-wad, comes Adolph Hitler. His mustache was in trouble

with local law-enforcement. Teenage vandalism, etc. The juvenile delinquent mailbox smasher in all of us. Mustache tattooed on his foreskin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MUSTACHE JOKES

 

 

 

I was telling myself a joke about three mustaches that walk into a bar:

 

The first mustache says, “I’m lonely, could I have a drink made of something other than mustache?” The bartender gives him a drink made entirely of the hair from a sideburn. The first mustache says, “Wow, that’s delicious.” The second mustache says, “I’m tired, can I have a drink made of something other than face-hair?” The bartender gives him a drink made entirely of the hair off the top of his head. The second mustache says, “Thanks, this is terrific head hair.” The third mustache says to the bartender, “I’m bored, can I have a drink made of something other than boredom?” The bartender gives him a drink made of mustache. The third mustache says, “What’s this? I’m not a cannibal!” And the bartender says, “Well you look like a mustache to me.”

 

I also said:

 

Knock, knock!

Who’s there?

Mustache.

Mustache who?

Must you stash your mustache in my knock-knock joke?

 

And then I said:

 

What’s the difference between a mustache and a black hole?

A black hole isn’t attached to your face and growing from your face pores.

     Or

A mustache isn’t a theory of modern physics, but sitting on your upper lip.

 

And then I said:

 

What do you get when you cross a ridiculous, face-fur mustache with Adolph Hitler?

A dictator afraid of the shadow beneath his nose.

 

And I said:

 

Take my mustache, --please!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE FASHIONABLE MUSTACHE

 

 

The situation of the mustache is one of fashion and

it’s quite possible that the situation of the mustache

has been exaggerated to make the situation more mustache,

but, in all honesty, making the mustache situation

more mustache is largely impossible. It’s a fact

that though a million things happen in a lifetime, the mustache

stretches across the horizon in the manner of a mustache

and has all of the grace of a Greek bird, a mustache god

that sits in judgment of all mustache assessment and must be

gazing down at me with a tear in his mustache.

He may wonder when the golden mustache era

will begin, when from ashes arising, the mustache shall

wing free from this earth, this smother mustache,

this razor that nips it, this hand on the mustache throat?

Oh, who knows? Mustache, probably.

My mustache, my mustache! Screams the woman.

As she flips through her magazines she notices mustache

advertisements and she senses impending mustache.

Careful, she thinks to herself, The Mustache Hunter on TV has

warned of this sort of thing. He says mustache

falls into the category of carnivore. His mustache

is persuasive. There is nothing about a mustache

that cannot be caught, trapped and renamed by a mustache.

It’s called history repeating itself and the mustache

in this sentence has been trimming and tidying this mustache

for so long, the mustache is back in style.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HITLER’S MUSTACHE: ONE MUSTACHE ASPECT

 

 

You have a father, a mother, they are dead or alive or friendly or unfriendly or known to you or unknown. In whatever case, we are all alike in that way. All like solid square hairs in that light. All standing on end and stretching up, reaching high, at attention. In that black way we are identical.

 

Even if I set aside my own feelings and politics, my own sensibilities and aesthetic, my jagged teeth and my jagged kneecaps. I have set my Merle Haggard records on fire

and am baking burnt biscuits for din-din.* Hope you’re coming soon. I need help.

 

So, in this case, (as the banker said to the farmer) it seems important to introduce the idea

of the lie fixed in my imagination.

 

I’m making good headway here.** Look, I’m moving forward and spanning the globe like a singer of popular music. My glitter shakes off on stages in Albania, in stages throughout the far East—my scale skin entirely stripped by the time we reach Miami. Back state-side, I must keep moving and move accordingly into the darkness. My goofy entourage must tag after me and, like a mustache, slip past the razor.

 

 

 

 

 

*“Yes, Caroline, a man will do that sometimes, sometimes, if he’s lonely. And I believe a man might do that out of spite—”

 

** I will gather my potential squirrels and make a cape from the pelts of new animals, ones that haven’t been identified by scientists, as of yet.