Congratulations on Growing a Handlebar Moustache!

Moustaches are never planned. They just happen sometimes.

Today one is going to happen to you.

You’ll awake with a carefully crafted and coiffed handlebar moustache on your upper lip where previously no moustache had been. It’ll be unnerving in the extreme, not just because it will have spontaneously and unceremoniously developed on your upper lip. You’ll also suddenly feel really, really racist.

“I don’t have a good reason for it, but I suddenly distrust black people,” you’ll announce to your wife.

“God that’s a terrible moustache,” she’ll murmur at you, pushing you out of bed onto the floor where you’ll lay for a few seconds wondering why you suddenly want to call the Irish an ill-formed and foul race of fiends.

“I hate this moustache as much as, if not slightly more than, Mexicans,” you’ll announce from the floor.

“Maybe you should shave that thing,” your wife will recommend. But her suggestion will seem as absurd to you as an Inuit who contributes to society.

“We’ll see,” you’ll reply. “We’ll see.”

Congratulations on Growing a Handlebar Moustache!