Fuck that was a terrible weekend. Why did you marry a whore in Las Vegas? What brought that on? Drugs obviously; but the resultant divorce tore more out of your unstable finances than you were prepared to give. That cock-sucking lawyer who got paid in blow jobs clearly didn’t help matters. The whole ordeal was so disturbingly inconvenient that most of the time you keep that entire strand of your young history hidden from your conscious mind. But now, as you scan your soul for the worst, most disgusting persona capable of arousing crowds of people into uncontrollable fits of frothing rage, the entire affair comes boiling up to the surface of your fragile consciousness, and there is no option more obvious than to don a cheap suit (with the seams pre-tattered to facilitate easy in ring ripping of course,) bland tie, and briefcase stuffed with bricks for wailing your opponent over the head with whenever the ref isn’t looking. This is really shaping up to be a kick ass costume and persona. All you need is to grow the perfect Pedo-mustache to complete the absolute most douche-tastic aura possible on the face of Kayfabe’s green Earth. The only question now is; to complete your bowel-agitating awfulness; should you simply wait and hope that the benevolent hands of time bestow upon you this crest of disgusting manliness?

If you believe, deep down in your sorry Generation Umlauter heart that you have the hormones necessary to naturally grow this feat of heel upper lip twicthery turn to page FLIP A COIN!

If you choose to seek out the appropriate hormone supplements required to force an excess of obnoxious follicle foliation turn to page HAVE FUN!

If you instead have an ounce of intelligence and choose to simply buy a fake mustache turn to page DUH!!!