Things I Hate


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Waxed or wooly, pencil-thin or bushier than Marilyn Chambers’ bikini line, nothing says “Do you know how fast you were going?” or, “Hey—nice penis!” like a mustache. Of course if you can sing like a eunich, prance like a peacock and rock enough man junk to fill a zebra leotard, please grow the cock broom. I’m sure there’s a Queen cover band somewhere that needs a Freddy Mercury impersonator to hit the high notes on “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Otherwise, shave the ‘stache, bro—it makes you look like an aging homosexual, a fireman or worst of all, a cop.


Anonymous said...

Oh you bastard.

Just *WAIT* until you see me in a zebra leotard.

Dr. Benway

Mike Miranda said...