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Let us forget Movember 

Stash that ‘stache


It snuck up on me this year. Normally I get warnings before it begins, but it was over a week into it before it struck me.

It was during Remembrance Day; a solemn, dignified day that was ruined once I scanned the crowd at Grand Parade. A lot of the male-identified patrons of the crowd had scraggly, pitiful excuses for facial hair isolated to their upper lip.

A sneer formed across my face. “MOVEMBER,” I cursed to myself. Each garbage heap of hair I’ve looked upon since that day has been more enraging than the last.

Aside from being the worst portmanteau ever developed by modern linguistics, Movember is the idea that by collecting money to literally do absolutely nothing it will cure prostate cancer.

It begins the same way each year. Some MovemBro corners you in the office or at a Halloween party. “Yo bro! My ‘stache, bro! Gonna grow a ‘stache for Movember, bro. Gonna sponsor my ‘stache bro?”

Or else what?

“Uhh, well, if I don’t do Movember I guess I’ll either shave everything or nothing.”

Guess what, I’m sold on that last one. You’re not getting a dime out of me. I consider it me earning money to teach you a lesson on facial aesthetics.

Look, I get the attachment to your prostate. This gem has played an important role in human history. Ancient cultures believed the seat of compassion lied not in the heart but in the rectum, I think. I’ve had a prostate my entire life and would be devastated if something were to happen to that lovely gland. It has made sure the right fluids have come out at the right time, and I give it a warm home.

But I don’t want to look at YOUR face and think of YOUR prostate. That’s all I’m doing now. My brain is being assaulted by prostates—the strange prostates of strange men. I walk down the street and I pass someone who looks like an ‘80s pederast and all I can think about is their throbbing ass gland. STOP IT. STOP IT NOW.

My mom is a breast cancer survivor. I’m so glad to still have her. She’s lived long enough that she’s going to soon retire and will be able to spend her golden years not only happy but alive. You know what she does to raise funds to cure breast cancer? She runs in a fucking race.

You want to raise money for prostate cancer? Do something better than normalizing the second-most perverted form of facial hair. Could you imagine a “flavour saver” month for mouth cancer? Since you’re too lazy to run, why not meet half-way and have some sort of group “grease ‘em and test ’em?”

“Sponsor me to raise funds for prostate cancer research.”

What will you be doing?

“I’ll be getting a prostate exam live on stage with about a dozen other people.”

SOLD. Here’s $100. It’s a win-win-win situation: you get people looking at your face (which you clearly want), precious prostates the world over are saved, and, most importantly, no moustrashes.

I’m glad this month is almost over: Decembeard begins next week. Decembeard is a time you let your face grow a luxurious, sensual pillow of fur worthy of an Olympian deity, not out of a desire to show people you’re generous under certain specific conditions but because it is god-damned cold out.

JAMES SHAKEY is a freelance writer who will let you touch his beard for $5 (offer expires December 5 2014).

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