Saturday, February 4, 2006

I, anonymous.

Reclaim your dignity, shave your ironic mustache.

In the world of meaningful existence there is no place for you ironic mustache. You awkwardly appear on the face of so many identity seeking twenty-somethings, including one table bussing dolt. Next time I dine at your velvet laded venue of employment, I will be sure to specify that a portion of my tip goes to you in the form of a shiny quarter so that when your excruciatingly challenging day of employment is finished you can insert it in a nearby pinball machine. Better yet, seize the opportunity and flip this new found prosperity to determine whether or not to shave your face and pursue that college degree or to continue your free fall into the annals of pop culture mishaps. Lets all hope the coin lands with the well groomed face of George Washington staring at you, ironic mustache. Otherwise you will be left with a limited house of potential with Tom Selleck and John Oates lying face down on the roof. I must admit your antic had me laughing at first, but then I relapsed into my gratifying sense of worth and you remained reveling at your ridiculous lip cover. So tomorrow when you wake up, stop the mental masturbation to Burt Reynolds and take a long look at your minor attempt to revive an unwanted past. You will see in those private eyes that you can now finally evolve with us and shed your anomaly of Darwinism. Pick up the razor or dwell in this cycle of shame like your forerunners.

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