i was leaning against my car this morning pumping gas and looking rad in my $5 aviators even though it was cloudy, when my mean machine lurched underneath me. seems a taxicab totally fragged me whilst backing in to fill up. play it cool boy.
the guy gets out and is looking frazzled. i am still leaning against the car, still pumping gas. cool as a cucumber in the crisper box. i amble over to meet him in the middle and have a look, like generals might meet in the middle of the battlefield to discuss terms before sending their willing troops into battle in the wars of old. no damage done to me (which i had known would be the case) but my car made a nice little scratch on his bumper (atta girl). one look at my sweet 'stache and the guy totally forgot how to speak english. don't sweat it, bro. you are free to go, taxi-man.
as i predicted, all the ladies in the office hate it. that's ok, it was part of the plan. there aren't enough dudes here for a fair sampling, but the one who i've seen so far gave me a knowing look and kept his mouth shut. he knows what we men all know intrinsically, as men. that mustaches are sweet, and words need not crash the pristine silence simply to fall short with their clumsy attempts to define the divine.