THE CRUSTACHE MANIFESTO (prepare for weirdness)

Back in the old days the Indians used to send their kids out to slaughter a bear to prove their manhood, now times have changed and all you have do is grow a crustache.

The Crustache is undoubtedly a phenomenon of follicles. Almost like a 5 o'clock shadow only appearing below the nose...the shadow resting ever so gently on the upper lip, but nowhere else...a lunar eclipse of hair.

So what is it that makes guys want to rock this light lip blanket? I see it mostly on early teenage guys. It's almost a rite of passage, I suppose, in the Latino community. It says, "Hey girls, I used to have peach fuzz on my ball sack, but now it turned dark and grew a half centimeter...and I have the crustache to prove it!!"

Some people wear their heart on their sleeve, others wear their pubes on their upper lip. To each their own I guess.

To shave, or not to shave. THAT is the question. In between the journey from pre-pubescence to not-quite-at-puberty rests this very crustache. From a far, one may mistake the crustache for a chocolate milk mustache, dirt, or even (heaven forbid) the remnants of a salad-tossing gone bad. Often times the crustache leaves the passerby puzzled. It's tough to figure out what it is from afar. With the squint of the eyes upon approaching this crusty mirage, alas, it becomes apparent that it is actually hair.

So why not shave this faux-stache? Because it establishes one's identity. In the crustache community, taking a Bic to the crust is
likened to a Jew removing their yamika, in temple, on the sabbath. It's sacrilegious.

I'm not the only one wanting answers. Journalists have written in scholarly reviewed periodicals documenting and trying to shed light on this very issue. They've hit the streets, conducted interviews, and delved deep into this pandemic.

Crustache Chronicle
3/29/08

The crustache is generating quite a "buzz" around town.

The facial hair community is up in arms about this impostor giving their clan a bad name. "We want to make clear to the general pube-lic and facial hair enthusiasts around the world that he [the crustache] is not a member of our guild, nor will he ever be," commented Fu-Man-Chu. "If he wants to ever gain our endorsement, he's got a LOT of growing to do."

Quick to retort and defend his people's dignity, the crustache barked back with a vengeance at the annual Cinco de Crustache Bash on May 5th in Guadalajara. "We refuse to back down, and we will remain strong and rooted," he proclaimed.

This confrontation did unfortunately turn violent last night, as police responded to a call. "They're trying to pluck us one by one," a proud Crustachean told police responding to the scene. The Crustache community cannot afford to lose any member follicles, as they are by nature sparsely positioned.

If things continue on this path, a violent confrontation seems imminent. Chances are that the beard may team up with the goatee, the Fu-Man-Chu, the grif, and the chin strap and cross the neutral zone to try and take out crustache forces.

"We see a definite susceptibility in crustache forces on the Eastern and Western borders. Crossing over through either the K-9's or incisors should allow our troops to leave them [crustache forces] nowhere to run," strategized General Lustrous.

The Congress just approved an extra $300 to help finance General Lustrous' weapons arsenal. These funds will allow troops to be armed with Nair grenades, Bic disposables, and even 3 Norelco Quatro Action's.

This is just the beginning of what appears will be a long and tumultuous battle. But I implore you, Americans. Please help support your troops in their quest of eradicating the Crustacheans that plague our society.

--Ryan O

Come into the Light, Join the Fight, Stop Discriminating, Against People of Height!

I am tall.  Like really tall.  So you have an idea, here's a picture of me from the other day with my lady friend (she's 6'2''): 

I'm sure after viewing that picture of me and my sexy girlfriend most of you laughed.  Some of you may have even thought "Wow, what a freak!".   Well I'm here to tell you something: you have just height discriminated.  What is height discrimination you ask?  Height discrimination is the average American company and citizen's daily disrespect and ridicule of people of height .  You think we don't see you poking your friends and pointing us out?  You think we don't hear the snickers when we accidently hit our head on an exit sign?  Well we do.  And it hurts.  

You 'normies' (as we call you) have it so good.  With your normie clothes and your normie shoes.  Have you ever walked into a shoe store, asked for your size, and been laughed at?  I don't think so.  You can walk into a clothing shop anywhere and buy an article of clothing.  You have that luxury.  You have the luxury of not knowing what I know.  That those stores, while filled with great products, discriminate against 1.4% of the population.  Can I buy pants there?  NO.  Can I buy sweatshirts that are long enough?  NO.  Can I buy shoes that are big enough?  NO.  You normies and your companies are segregating a large (no pun intended asshole) part of the population.  

I know what you'll say.  "What about Big and Tall?  They have clothes for tall people."  First of all, have you ever been in a Big & Tall.  No?  Well let me enlighten you about the store.  It is geared almost completely towards the Big, as in fat.  The tall have a tiny little section in the back, where you can buy XLT nylon jumpers and pleather jackets.  Umm, I don't need a freaking pleather jacket.  I need a sweatshirt that hangs past my freaking waste.  "Here, try this on!"  The friendly sales person said to me.  Yeah, and I REALLY don't need an XXXXXXXL sweatshirt that will be long enough, but will also have enough extra hanging fabric to clothe Dumbo's mother.  Thank you though.  F you, Big & Tall.  (Memo to the next person who says "Where do you shop?  Big & Tall?" and starts laughing hysterically--- I am going to kill you.)

Where do we have to shop?  I'll tell you.  We search for hours on-line, segregated to our homes, hoping to find a size that may fit among a selection that is extremely limited.  

So let's take a step back and look at the grievances filed by people of height.  People of height cannot shop in many stores.  People of height are vastly limited in their selection of goods.  People of height are mocked and alienated in public.  Normies are sometimes jealous and angry at people of height for no legitimate reason.  The only way that people of height may shop is to be relegated to their homes and segregated from the general populace.  Any of that look familiar?  (Hint: Rhymes with Yahtzee Hermany, Pregregation, and Hommunist Brush-Ha)

So I urge you normies to fight against your ingrained stereotypes.  Join us in our fight against height discrimination, both corporate and civilian.  For it is a slippery slope.  Today, it is those 6'5'' and over.  Tomorrow, it could be 6'2'' and over.  The next day 6'0''.  Until one day Nike decides those over 5'8'' are using too much fabric and it pairs with Gatorade to market a new flavor for those 5'8'' and up called  'Final Solution'.  It could happen.  Know that.

FIGHT HEIGHT DISCRIMINATION!

Andrew

My Saturday From 11:00am-1:00pm: An Odyssey

The morning light penetrates the eighth of an inch between my blinds, waking me from my alcoholic slumber.  I turn over to fight the sun's rays, but after a half hour I realize my fight is an exercise in futility.  I swing my legs over my bed and look at my phone.  My guess of morning was off.  It's 11:30, mid-day.  As I stand to walk to the bathroom, I pause.  Not because of choice, but because my body cannot physically handle an attempt at walking.  I use thirty seconds to gather myself and question my reasons for taking those last three jaeger shots.  Brushing away the fog that clouds my mind, I come to the conclusion that I need new friends--those assholes.  The thought of self control does not even enter into my sub conscious.  

I stumble to the bathroom and involuntarily strip.  I hit the shower, hanging my head in the streams of water with my eyes shut.  I increase the pressure continuously until the water penetrates my mind's haze.  I keep my head down and slowly open my eyes.  I see my penis.  He looks lonely.  I tell him I'll see what I can do and I make a mental note to give his neighbor, Mr. Wrinkleyfunbag, a haircut.  I lumber out of the shower without even washing--too much work.  Half-heartedly I dry off and walk back into my room while attempting to rub the hangover out of my eyes.  I stub my toe on my dresser.  The shooting pain gives me a moment of clarity and a creative new curse word to utilize.  'Cocksac' could be catchy.  I throw on some underwear, some clean socks, and a tee.  I itch my balls.  I walk to the blinds and move one ever so slightly to the side because my eyes can't handle the shock of direct sunlight.  I get lucky and avoid the rays.  It looks sunny out.  I complete my outfit with shorts and a hat.  Heading back to the night stand, I pick up my phone.  I search through it for a pieces of last night's unfinished puzzle, all the while praying I didn't call the ex.  God's not on my side these days.  Two outgoing calls,  over two minutes each.  The way we argue, two minutes might as well be two seconds.  I must have left messages.  Disaster.  Mom always said nothing good ever happens after two a.m....

I decide to deal with it later and throw my phone in my pocket.  I grab my wallet and my sunglasses and head out into the living room.  The smell of eggs cooking creeps into my nose and induces my gag reflex.  The over excited 'good morning' by my roommate almost induces another.  You know those people that don't get hung over no matter how much they drink?  The people who are up until four a.m. slugging vodka and then wake up the next day fully functional for work?  The people you just want to punch when you are feeling awful?  Yeah.  That's my roommate.  I take in his intentional over exuberance, grunt a reply, and meander into the kitchen.  Revenge will soon be mine.  

Positioning myself in front of the refrigerator, I make sure my rear is pointed in my roommate's general direction.  I pretend to fumble for a bottled water long enough to summon a deadly gas that has been lurking deep within my bowels.  I unload the depth charge, smothering my roommate and his breakfast in the stale funk of last nights deadly combination of jaeger, beer, and a late night trip to I-Hop.  'It really IS a good morning!'  I tell him as he keels over in disgust, enveloped in my noxious cloud.  Closing the fridge, I take my water and my victory to the couch.  As I settle down, still smirking at the muffled coughs of my roommate, I realize the direct correlation between my actions, his eventual disgust, and the strength of my hangover.  It has diminished slightly.  I revel in that newly illuminated fact and turn the channel to ESPN.  After a few minutes of chugging water, I conclude I need back-up.  Before my brain can analyze the journey ahead and its physical repercussions, I jump up and run to the bathroom for some Excedrin.  Luckily, I'm back on the couch before the wave of exhaustion hits.  A testament to my athletic prowess.  After popping the pills, I reestablish positioning on the sofa.  Channel surfing brings me an unexpected gift.  The last forty minutes of Kurt Russell in perhaps his greatest roll:  Playing Jack Burton in 'Big Trouble in Little China'.  I rejoice.  The day is looking up...

To the Homeless Man That Spit on Me...

The other day I was driving down Lincoln Blvd in Venice after a long day of work. It's about an hour and a half commute to go a mere 25 miles, just to give you some perspective of my mood. I saw some cars up ahead in the lane beside me stopped in the middle of the road. My lane, however, was clear...so I began to proceed onward...and then see a homeless guy start to come into my lane to yell at me. He was previously standing in front of the other cars and berrating everyone.

Wanting to avoid confrontation, I moved onto the shoulder slowly and tried to go around him. It was at this point that this guy told me to "Go F myself," and then hawked an ENORMOUS loogie (I think he managed to scrounge up flem in his esophagus from 1982) and spit the giant wad all over my face. YES, ALL OVER MY FACE. Seriously. I didn't know whether to go after the guy or to go get a tetanus shot. This was a great end to the day.

 

The irony is that the day before, and I'm serious, THE DAY BEFORE, I was riding my bike at the beach after work and a guy was running in front of me with his Ipod on. With the wind at our faces, this guy didn't realize that I was directly behind him when he proceeded to blow a MONSTER snot-rocket that spray actioned like a crop-duster all over my face. 

Two days. Two different saliva specimens. One face. Mine. 

 But back to the homeless guy in the middle of the road. I got to thinking, What is this dude's problem? Why is he so pissed off and yelling at everyone? I'm sure he reads our blog, so I decided to make a list, for him, of reasons why being homeless in Venice, CA isn't so bad...

 

 1) You have no bills. I mean, you don't have a shopping cart payment, nor do you have to ensure that thing. Hell, I don't know many people that's transportation is free and given to you by your local grocery store.

 

2)You have no bills. Granted the bills I'm referring to now are dollar bills. That means you don't have to go blowing your change on a wallet!! Instead, you can invest that coinage in a 40 oz. bottle of OIde English. Which brings me to the next perk...

How many people do you know that's nightly heating bill cost $2.99 and has it provided by the 7-11? Sure, the yuppies out there that live in "homes" use propane gas to keep themselves warm at night, but you opt for a different form of matter: LIQUID! Who knew that malt liquor was so versatile?!

 

3) If your shopping cart ever catches on fire, you have the flame-retardant blanket handy to put out the flames!

 

4) How many poeple can say they have a rent-free place on the beach with an ocean view??

 

5) You don't have to worry about getting up early to shave. Because you don't shave. EVER.

 

6) You don't have to worry about getting up from the couch...walking over to get your food from the fridge...then walking back over to the couch...then back to the garbage can to throw out your remains. Your fridge is your garbage can, and your garbage can is your fridge!!

 

7) It barely takes you any time to brush your tooth at night. Now you have more time to figure out which makes for better toilet paper, a Big Mac wrapper or 3 liquor store receipts!!

 

8) If things ever turn around for you, you can use your current roof/tarp to haul raked leaves and grass clippings out to the compost pile!

 

9) Every election period or so the state paves you a new mattress. Box spring? Frame? Who needs 'em!!

 

That oughta cheer you up big guy:

Nice.  Now please try to keep the spit off my face. 

--Ryan

A First Date, Starring Me...

We're going on a first date.........

 

Well actually, first rebound after getting canned by another useless ex-boyfriend.  My date had been my friend first, and basically someone I dished out some mental abuse to while getting back on my feet.  Somewhere in between me talking non stop about my ex-boyfriends he managed to get a word in and ask me out - I think... I'm not totally sure--I wasn't really listening.

 

So we meet at his big old creepy empty and silent house to take the train down to a concert.  It was the first time we've hung out as more than friends and seeing as we were going to see some sweet sexual love making music, there was no doubt this was a first date. 

 

Its just me and him.  No TV, no music.  I gotta poop, and his bathroom was so close to where we were sitting hanging out, he mine as well have sat on my lap and wiped my ass.

 

I'm going to cut to it here...I push so hard so I go so fast so this guy doesn't think I am growing a tail.  The cough during the plop is a given.  I flush and it DOES NOT go down....I jiggle the handle again, and again...but the toilet water gets high and is ready to overflow.  This toilet is fucking broken.  With my poop fingerprint in it.

 

Clearly I wasn't going to ask him to help plunger my poop (that's my dad's job).  I only had one option.

 

WINDOW.  I dug my hands in, pulled out the poop and threw it right out his bathroom window.  Then grabbed the poop stained toilet paper and threw it out the window too.

 

Talk to me sister.  

--Seana