Mo... Movember, Poker, and Thanksgiving

I once lost a mustachio bet. They weren't nearly as hip or cool as they are these days with James Franco rocking one without any irony. So, I had to grow one and go out with my friends sporting a stash. I went handlebars and tried to pull off bad ass. I didn't grow the perm or side-burns but I should have.

This time I grew the hair to match, but of course I forgot to take any photos with my hair comically coiffed. Oh well, that makes as much sense as Formula 1 betting because you drive a car. Anyway, I'm submitting some photos for the competition and I will have some mustache photos of me on here too, soon.

So, there I was with this gross third eyebrow over my mouth and I was stuck going to seeing Grand-mother. She's 95 so to say she's a little conservative, considering she predates the parents of hippies is to put it mildly. I don't think she approves of any facial foilage, especially a shaggy stache that looked as ridiculus as the one on my face.

Before we got to her, I had to see my parents first. I know they hated it. That was delightful. If my parents don't like an aspect of my appearence like the foolish earring I got in college they'll simply ignore it. Until it is brought up and my dad would say something clever like, "If you want to look like an idiot it's your choice."

So, we met them at a restaurant outside of Pensacola while my grandmother was napping. Of course they only wanted to see the baby or more accurately our toddler but as my mother greeted me I could feel her eyes studying my face. I felt like Drew Brees on the Oprah Winfrey show and my mother hadn't even said anything. Inside I found it to be... mustachtic.

She said nothing, yet I knew she was thinking "What a moron I have for a kid," as I would have if I were in her shoes.

My dad was waiting in the restaurant and he too tried to play it cool without saying a word. I turned my head to put my son in the high chair and I watched in the corner of my eye, my father literally do about five takes studying my mustache while I wasn't looking. I now knew what a lady with massive cleavage feels like when she purposelly wears a low cut shirt and all they guys get tractor beamed into the crease in her chest when she turns for just a second.

Again, I found this mus-tastic.

As per the competition rules, I could not tell him why I had a mustache and I was actually enjoying it. They didn't refer to it once not even a full day into the visit, so I know they HATED it. Hilarious.

I have a weird private sense of humor. Sometimes I'll share it with a close friend and say ridiculous things in public places loud enough for some-one else to hear just so I can laugh inside my head at what I know is going on inside the stranger's head. One of my favorite such things to say is to walk up on a stranger with a wrap-up sentence. A wrap-up sentence concluding a head-scratching conversation such as...

"...so yeah, anyway, that's how I got my third testicle," or...

"so after all that, and tranquilizing the poor thing, they finally got her arm out of the elephant's ass but here's the weird thing instead of her wedding ring it was some one elses," or one I springed with my kid in my arms out recently...

"so after taking the DNA test it was neither of our kids, turns out they must have given us the wrong baby at the hospital, but I'm not complaining this kid's a saint, we're keeping him."

... to be continued...