Yo, dawg. In honor of our mentor CPA-ONE: Herbert Kornfeld is our Mustache of the Day.

Suckas always comin’ up 2 me sayin’, damn Dog, we thought you down wit’ tha gangsta rap, not no Chicago VII. I say hell no, I gots mad hate foe that wack hip-hop shit. Hall N’ Oatz, Neily D, that band that supply air: now that’s tha mad slammin’ shit, word dat. Tha H-Dog listens easy, always has, always will.

Happy Mustache Wednesday, motherfuckers! We were big fans of our dad’s copy of Chicago 17, ourselves. Peter Cetera was cheated out of an Emmy that year.
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The Mustache Wednesday Mustache of the Day cannot have-a his stride broken, and had this crazy dream where he went to China to have someone do his laundry and have that thing–my God, whatever that is–removed from his face. Mustache, ho! One-hit wonder Matthew Wilder is our Mustache of the Day

Happy Mustache Wednesday, motherfuckers!

If you wonder whether people who had 80s trouble with their hair ever solved it, the sad answer in Wilder’s case is no. See it in all of its glory, and framed by dancers in extremely regrettable costumes, after the jump.

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You’re going to have to go past the jump to get the full majesty of our mustache of the day. Also, please see part one of our MMA Misadventure for The Amateur over on TSB. WIth that: Mustachery…

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We think if you name a child “Sal Fasano,” the infant just sort of comes with a mustache like this attached in a helpful carry-on bag for later use. (HT:
Happy Mustache Wednesday, Motherfuckers!

We were going to put new Purdue coach Danny Hope in here, who has continued the tradition of wearing a Cuban Soup Filter while coaching the Boilermakers, but we spaced on his name in the Sporcle “How effectively can you demonstrate your inability to properly remember names of Division 1 football coaches?” quiz. Without being a total dick and cheating, we got an 86; for further context, info-bot and acknowledged genius Hinton got a 102, but we blame the differential on us filling those data slots with more important things, like essential lines of dialogue from Buttman’s Wild Goose Chase. Joey Silvera never got enough credit for his fine performance in that work.

Today’s Mustache: the very grizzled Gordon Lightfoot, seen here with the immortal ’stache/dark aviators combo essential for all manbears from 1978-1982.

Cuddles went to see Gordon Lightfoot two years ago, and said that “he wasn’t as familiar with Mr. Lightfoot’s catalog as he should have been” before sitting down to watch him for two hours. Well, who besides the most devoted Canadian folk-rock fan is?

And you’re damn right “Sundown” is after the jump. (more…)

Our Mustache Wednesday ’stache of the day: Maryland defensive line coach Dave Sollazzo

Happy Mustache Wednesday, motherfuckers!

We’ve been told it’s grown in more magnificently than its iteration here, and for that the world is a richer place.

Your Mustache of the Week is Noel Mazzone, receivers coach for the Jets and currently in the running for the Wannstache’s OC spot.

Bravo to the Pitt paper, which includes this fine passage when analyzing Mazzone’s key weaknesses:

It just lends further credibility to the rumor that Wannstedt isn’t actually a football coach, but an old-timey villain sent to Earth to conquer our planet by assembling the finest grouping of mustachioed men the universe has ever known. If Mazzone is the hire, the staff is only a guy with one of those mustaches that curls up at both ends and wears straw-boater hats away from forming Megazord, but with an unbelievably large mustache.

Happy Mustache Wednesday, motherfuckers.

This Wednesday’s Mustache of the Day: Jaylon Snead, proud papa of Ole Miss qb Jevan Snead.

Happy Mustache Wednesday, motherfuckers!

That ain’t a mustache, sweetie. It’s a hairy handlebar for the sexual bike ride of your life. (HT: Red Solo Cup.

Mustache Wednesday, volume one, the work of Angry Chicken from the BC Scout board:

And bonus Mustache Wednesday, just because we do indeed ride dirty from time to time.

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If you’re one of the huddled masses whose state has been taken over by the unstoppable Ice Nine outbreak gripping our nation, let the tropically thunderous sex of Robert Downey’s quality cowcatcher clear the way through the freezing snowbanks currently blocking you in your house.

Happy Mustache Wednesday, motherfuckers!