We’re taking it a hundred miles north. That’s a hundred miles closer to where you are. I’ve decided units and measurements of distance are bullshit. With you there are only two distances that matter: Here. Not here. You are not here.
If I were stranded on a desert island, and could have only one person and three things with me, I’d want Nietzsche, a pen, paper, and a stick-on mustache.
We can’t be lovers because we both have mustaches. But since you’re a lady, and I’m a gentleman, I’ll shave mine off.
I once tried to shave my mustache off with a toothbrush. Just one example of my skills as a lover.
I’m as much a lover as a cumulous cloud is a beard of God. My mustache can’t make rain the way I make love.
I mopped up my moped off the street, and drove home on the unicycle below my handlebar mustache, while I thought about the path love might take now.
I’m wearing my political mustache today. If you want to see it, you’ll find it on the pubic region of a lobbyist.
Your deceit smells like a fake mustache. Nobody stole my facial hair. I shaved this morning and donated half of it to the Humane Society. The other half I kept for sentimental petting reasons.
I’m divorced, in debt, and I can’t grow sideburns. Sometimes I get depressed, but then I think, It’s OK—I can still grow a mustache.
He looked at me with a smile that I still remember and ran a finger along his impeccably trimmed mustache. “Cricket is about a lot more than playing by the rules, Mistry. It’s a gentleman’s game. Don’t you ever forget that.
People call me “Mustache,” because I have an eyebrow on my upper lip. When I close my lips it’s like a wink and a kiss combined. It’s like lust overload.
The tire left a skid mark on the road that looked like a mustache. So I shaved it off the pavement, stuffed it in my trunk, and took it home to wear to work the next day. Ah, but that’s life, no?
His clothes were clean, but his mustache was dirty. He must have used it as a brush to scrub his pants. I’ll bet his coffee tastes like freedom.
I had a dream about you. You were wearing Sylvester Stallone's sneer as pants, but his lips were saggy on your legs, so you had to wear a mustache as a belt.
My voice is raspy, like Rasputin’s beard. My love is like a mustache hidden in a patch of armpit hair. Come, feel what I feel for you.
I water fake plants, because I’m growing a garden of fake mustaches. Lest no man (or woman) question my ability as a lover.
There’s truth and honor in a mustache. And that’s why I started flying one on the flagpole outside of my house.
When I get angry I tend to raise my voice—with a forklift. Hang on to my handlebar mustache if you want me to peddle faster.
The way my vacuum cleaner sucks up cat hair, I shouldn’t have been surprised when it huffed up my mustache. But I was surprised it sucked out all the love and romance in our relationship.
I admire your mustache madam, but I wonder, what’s for dessert?
The wacky thing about those bad guys is that you can't count on them to be obvious. They forget to wax their mustaches and goatees, leave their horns at home, send their black hats to the dry cleaner's. They're funny like that.
