Redneck. A popular etymology says that the term derives from such individuals having a red neck caused by working outdoors in the sunlight over the course of their lifetime. A job that only a mustache can take.
A top hat or top-hat (sometimes also know by the nickname "topper") is a kind of tall, flat-crowned, broad-brimmed hat worm by men throught the 19th and early 20th centuries.
Now, one thing is certainly necessary to worn this traditional hat: a mustache.
Dictionary definition: strip is a long, straight region of a single color.
That‘s why mustache and stripes come togheter.
Footnote before we even start today’s special post: all the mustaches depicted above were captured on Sundays.
Footnote of the footnote: it’s obvious. A pappa-mustache is nothing but an ordinary mustache during the week, when he finds himself isolated under working-daily conditions.
Now to the actual bla-bla:
They put the M in Master of the House. The M of Mustache.
And even though a simple kiss in his son/daughter/wife/maid might cause an uncomfortable hairy attrition, the fact of setting the example overcomes this little „get away daddy“ syndrome.
Personally speaking, my father never had a mustache.
And this made me a weaker person.
It’s hard to think about Robert Duvall and not remember the „I love the smell of napalm in the morning“ sequence. A second thought may evoke the conseglieri, a bald thx1138 and so on (depending on your movie expertise/nerdness degree)
But the point here is: must be hard for an actor to live his whole life/career associated with a one-liner. Even if it’s a fuckin' good one.
Some try to overcome the fact by killing wives, hidding in the mountains, joining the mexican soap operas.
Others put on a mustache.
Young man, there’s no need to feel down!
Seriously, look at this mutache. Look what you’re missing. Trust me: life can be way brighter if you carry a mustache around. Just like credit cards, they are accepted in most places.
So be brave. Learn from the experience of others.
Or, to quote another great song: Let It Grow.
The record shows that Columbus had no mustache.
Records also show that when he was about to get killed by his own shipmates someone said “errrrr... I’m not sure whether it's the cheap rum but I’m positive there’s something out there“. The rest of the story is quite known.
Centuries have gone by and what do see in the streets? A mustache paying tribute to the historical gesture.
Mustache is culture.
Illegal immigration have long since occupied the front page of countless papers. It’s an actual subject and must be discussed with great perspicacity.
Some say it’s bad, some say it’s cool.
I say: as long as we (by „we“ please read belowthenose staff) keep getting shipments of foreign mustaches like the one depicted above, well, my vote is DOWN WITH THE BORDERS.
Seems like there’s been a riot in someone’s bathroom. The reasons remain unknown.
Maybe a desperate wife trying to rip off her husband’s hairy trophy. Maybe an angry razor pissed off at not being used for a while jumped into our hero’s face.
Like i said: the reasons remain unknown. We can only trust in what our eyes can see.
And I do see a survivor.
Go ahead, carry your little red book. Do what others do and never question authority. Let us march north with our mustaches facing the Asian wind.
I believe the world would be a better place if communism had overcomed our fragile tupperware lives (and let FBI come after me) with their big-brother rules and no-razor commandments.
Fortunately a few survived.
Serioulsy, who needs them?
This mustache fills us up with knowledge and the latest „ins“ on avant-gard anatomy.
Mankind’s search for true love is an interesting subject. It could suck you into countless books (please avoid Goethe’s Werther – we already lost too many belowthefans this way) and literally trillions of heartbreaking stories.
But a few succeed. And the reason couldn’t be any more obvious: the male gender of the relatioship had mustache. (and not the female – just take a look at Frida’s love life)
Well well, I could extend my reasons for lines and more lines in awe of this wonderful and cristaline feeling, but hey, this is not a self-help blog.
And besides, today’s friday so I’m out to get some myself. But just after I quote Mr.Lennon: folks, all you need is mustache.
John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson, Willie Dixon, Big Bill Broonzy, today’s post.
Having da-blues knows no boundries, no creed, no colors. It’s a universal state of low self- esteem and it cannot be cured with a simple „hey, I’ve got a hundred dollars and a bottle of whisky so let’s go get stoned and do a hooker-run“.
It’s easy to spot man with the blues. Especially when he’s dressed for the occasion.
Might be your father. Or your friend’s father. Or even your friend’s friend’s father. But it's an universal truth: he's a mustache.
Just rememer when you’re younger (6 or 7) and you were on the backseat of your friend’s dad Chevrolet, on the way to his summerhouse (this is getting too gay, but let’s keep going). A time when you still couldn’t see what was outside the window, so your only point of view was that old manual-tuning-radio and that immense fat right elbow shifting the gears. Suddenly he turns his neck and says: „What’s your favorite team, kid?“
You’re silently sucked by that hairy slug below his nose.
„Chicago Bears, sir“
Let’s stick to basics here: black-fuckin-white never goes outta fashion, never gets old, never whatever.
And today’s post knows that. He know, and when he realized his mustache (as well as his hair – but that’s irrelevat) had turned white, what’d he do? Goddam right: black shirt on!
That’s what moves me about the mustache world: they explain life, they are easy-to-understand allegories of our complex rituals and whatdafuck I’m I talking about anyway?
See you tomorrow.
Some mustaches are smarter than you think. Just when you’re out there, chasing them, pretending to be there just to get the shot done, PAM!, they stick it up your ass.
With this one was no different. Many of our staff have been unfairly harassed by these naughty mustaches, and this picture it’s a courtroom exhibit of the action taking place.
Fortunately no one was hurt in the making of today’s post. (hope we can still say that tomorrow morning...)
The eyes... the eyes don’t lie. This mustache’s a killer.
A mosquito killer.
How do I know? Look at his shirtpocket.
Guess someone here must have had quite a night last night. Popcorn, cheap wine, ancient kong-fu film and footmassage, I must say, will surely effect the next day’s overview look.
Until you look in the mirror and say: „heeeey, that’s a nice mustache I’ve got. Dahell with everything else!“
Life’s hard sometimes. It can throw up, then, you’re out there licking your glory, it will throw you down. Way down. If you’re a short man, well, even worst.
Not if you’ve got a mustache, though. It’s like having a shield, a berlin-hairy-wall against any illegal citizen-razor.
They appreciate the good things in life.
They drop by this very blog everyday (not!) and with greater thirst on fridays.
They are the reason we never step in the streets without a camera.
They is you!
Therefore this special post is dedicated to the hundreds, even millions of belowthenose lovers all around this great mustachian world, who, from time to time, also stop to register the local beauties of their neighborhood.
’Cause the mustache is everywhere: New York, Toquio, Milan, Berlin, Santana da Parnaíba and, of course, here at your deared Official Mustache Database.
above you can check 5 of the randomly selected pics for the first BELOWTHEFANS special. If you’ve got a camera and a mustachian friend/familymember/barber/boss/plumber/girlfriend don’t hesitate to write to firstname.lastname@example.org with your contribution.
He was the first man to win the Top Gun trophy.
He was the guy who took Maverick’s badge away.
He was the first mustache I ever saw on the big screen. (ok ok, Goose - R.I.P. - had one as well, but let’s stick to hierarchy here...)
So here’s our humble tribute to Viper, the everlasting Top Gun Commander.
(or do you think they’d give such honor to a mustacheless actor?)
It’s a well known fact that technology has changed our lives dramatically. (without internet we’d probably be sending daily mustache-chromos to you, dear belowthenosian friend) Meanwhile what we see is that some adapt to the new times and some don’t. The mustache obvioulsy doesn’t. Gillette Mach3, Philishave, Ginsu Knifes, nothing has altered the millenary hairy facial status.
Not even FBI earplugs. You hear that, Mr. McNamara?
Today's post is a real composite of many singularities. From top to bottom: woody-allen glass, open shirt with half-tend chest, multi pen + passport + wallet + 200 worldcup stickers in right shirtpocket, and last (BUT NOT LEAST!!!) a full german sausage in left shirtpocket.
And that¹s not to mention the mustache... a shy Dali in offspring.
For those about to rock... we salute you with Mr. Mustache Zappa.
Guy with an interesting past, Frank Zappa self-produced almost every one of the more than 60 albums he released with the Mothers of Invention (who da fuck cares, really!?)
But way more important than any historical la-di-da is the mustache impact these weird prick achieved in the rock scene, influencing countless young bigas (we all know how this niche suffers, as seen here) in an extreme postive way – even if his lyrics were never to be understood by them.
Frank Zappa. By many, a mother of the biga.
Left hand, please, left hand. See that? Dear belowthenosian friend, what we’ve got here is a typical case of calcasian bad-ass aerial Hendrix. Or, if you’d like, simply air guitar.
The guitar, in this case, is a second class detergent. But who are we to question the authenticity of this musical biga? Damn right.
And just when you thought playing with your teeth was the ultimate guitar-trick-thingy, think about that: air mustache.
What I always say: bomb the museums, a mustache tells you everything.
Today’s post depicts a biga specimen in an ancient position: the egyptian profile. It’s through this perspective that one can truly appreciate the radial hairy curve of the biga.
Forget the Louvre. L’mustache au pouvoir!