Untrimmed, a bit uneven, a microscopic bald patch on one side, mousier than your actual hair color – yup, that mustache has seen some harsh.
Out on the mean streets, pretending to stroll around all casual, whistling softly but carrying a big stick, one eye out for perps.
(You were on the front lawn cleaning up after the storm? I guess you’re holding twigs, not a night stick?)
What’s that suspicious rustling? Show yourself. Ahh, the Petrocelli’s dog is wagging his tail again, smiling at you with his big shepherd butt in the air, inviting you to play.
No! You’re a cop, dammit, on serious mustache business, ensuring that all areas are free for emergency egress, especially around the recycling.
Oooh, the crafty fingers of those suburban raccoons, prying open every garbage can despite Home Depot’s fiercest city locks. The garbage smells too delicious and enticing – your ‘stachio surveillance is appreciated yet possibly worthless. Go around back.
Quiet now, stealthy – do NOT make a sound. It’s dark, we’re in the woods, any goddam thing can happen. You’re holding some kind of blunt instrument behind your back?
What’s that now? A salt lick? For the deer. I see. That’s, well that’s very nice.
Why don’t you shave it off.