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“When I was informed that I had been named People’s Magazine’s Sexiest Man of the Year—Mustache Edition, I steeled my jaw and slowly exhaled through my flared nostrils into the very lip-thicket that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.” -Nick Offerman 
“This news pleased me little. I crushed the iPhone in my hand into dust, this despite the hardy White Oak case I had painstakingly carved for it. Why can no one see what a nightmare these whiskers make of my life? Soon after I learned of this “honor,” my doorbell rang. Mr. Tom Selleck had sent over an enormous congratulatory yak, smoking a cigar. Impressive, Tom, but misguided. Sam Eliott sent me a text that read, “I reckon you et the bar this time, pard,” whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. And Burt Reynolds sent me a Corvette with the words, ”All you, Baby!” painted on the trunk. You son a of bitch. Pardon me, as I count to 10…8.9.10. All right. Look. I can’t begin to describe my frustration at receiving accolades for this facial bane. My mustache! You think it’s a good time, seeing a woman countenance my visage and swoon, only to fall beneath the crushing wheels of a Sunset Strip Hummer? Wrong. When I’m standing in line at the bank, and it’s held up by six men with clown masks and AK-47s, do you think it’s a fun chuckle when everyone turns expectantly to me, assuming somehow that my insanely lush mustache will kickass all of us to safety? It’s not a chuckle, People, not by a long shot. Those dead clowns are most certainly not chuckling. When a press junket for Parks and Recreation took me overseas to Valhalla, this royal Norsemen, Odin, said he wanted to reward me for the power of my facial bear. Okay, fine. He handed me some crappy, little sledgehammer and said, “Wield it justly.” His kid Thor (of course his name was Thor) comes over and starts crying at my feet, mewling something over and over that sounded like “mjolnir, my mjolnir…” I picked him up and lightly bludgeoned him with the hammer and he completely lost it. Full-on tantrum. It was a tiny, little tap, seriously, he was being a total baby. Odin said, “My son fills me with shame. I have only ever wanted him to display facial hairs half as magnificent as those upon your mouth, but, alas, he remains practically clean-shaven. Why, he’s no more man than Hawkeye,” whom I’m assuming is a Norwegian musician, like ABBA? It was mighty awkward is what it was. They certainly do things differently in Europe. Anyway. My point is, simply, that I appreciate the gesture, but this mustache does not strike me as “sexy” in anyway. It strikes me as a pain in my hairy ass. Where’s my trophy for that? And finally, Tom Selleck, I thank you for the yak. It is robust, and I will consume it.”

“When I was informed that I had been named People’s Magazine’s Sexiest Man of the Year—Mustache Edition, I steeled my jaw and slowly exhaled through my flared nostrils into the very lip-thicket that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.” -Nick Offerman 

“This news pleased me little. I crushed the iPhone in my hand into dust, this despite the hardy White Oak case I had painstakingly carved for it. Why can no one see what a nightmare these whiskers make of my life? Soon after I learned of this “honor,” my doorbell rang. Mr. Tom Selleck had sent over an enormous congratulatory yak, smoking a cigar. Impressive, Tom, but misguided. Sam Eliott sent me a text that read, “I reckon you et the bar this time, pard,” whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. And Burt Reynolds sent me a Corvette with the words, ”All you, Baby!” painted on the trunk. You son a of bitch. Pardon me, as I count to 10…8.9.10. All right. Look. I can’t begin to describe my frustration at receiving accolades for this facial bane. My mustache! You think it’s a good time, seeing a woman countenance my visage and swoon, only to fall beneath the crushing wheels of a Sunset Strip Hummer? Wrong. When I’m standing in line at the bank, and it’s held up by six men with clown masks and AK-47s, do you think it’s a fun chuckle when everyone turns expectantly to me, assuming somehow that my insanely lush mustache will kickass all of us to safety? It’s not a chuckle, People, not by a long shot. Those dead clowns are most certainly not chuckling. When a press junket for Parks and Recreation took me overseas to Valhalla, this royal Norsemen, Odin, said he wanted to reward me for the power of my facial bear. Okay, fine. He handed me some crappy, little sledgehammer and said, “Wield it justly.” His kid Thor (of course his name was Thor) comes over and starts crying at my feet, mewling something over and over that sounded like “mjolnir, my mjolnir…” I picked him up and lightly bludgeoned him with the hammer and he completely lost it. Full-on tantrum. It was a tiny, little tap, seriously, he was being a total baby. Odin said, “My son fills me with shame. I have only ever wanted him to display facial hairs half as magnificent as those upon your mouth, but, alas, he remains practically clean-shaven. Why, he’s no more man than Hawkeye,” whom I’m assuming is a Norwegian musician, like ABBA? It was mighty awkward is what it was. They certainly do things differently in Europe. Anyway. My point is, simply, that I appreciate the gesture, but this mustache does not strike me as “sexy” in anyway. It strikes me as a pain in my hairy ass. Where’s my trophy for that? And finally, Tom Selleck, I thank you for the yak. It is robust, and I will consume it.”

(via zisforzaffo)

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