Master of Disguise

I present, with great fanfare, history’s most important moustache (in my humble estimation):

The fake moustache.

Consider, if you will, all that has been accomplished behind this subtle façade. How many national secrets obtained, how many trails shed, how many bosomy vixens seduced. Think of all the follicly challenged young crimefighters who have slapped on this valued accessory like so many Mr. Potato Heads and said, “I, too, am Magnum. I, too, am Wyatt Earp. I, too, am the Policeman from the Village People.” How else, pray, would Gene Parmesan manage to conduct his business?

Oh, how worthless would a fake FBI badge be if it could not be purchased with an appropriately business-like fake moustache to project the necessary level of authority?!

Consider, again, the national security implications of the fake moustache. How many security guards could not have been strolled past with a whistling nonchalance were it not for the high-tech gadgetry of a strip of horsehair? How many turbans and camels would have been incomplete and unconvincing cover amidst the dubious eyes of the Middle Eastern deserts unless tied together with a swarthy and devious broom? (Think, also, of the sunburn prevented under the vicious equatorial sun—I am told that a fake moustache has an SPF of 45.)

Naturally, the fake moustache has also been conscripted into service of the evildoers, and our enemies. How are we to know how many Russian Sam Elliott look-alikes moseyed into how many Nevada saloons, dressed in a duster and a truly convincing artificial handlebar, and received clear directions to the nuclear facility “up Cane Springs way,” only to fortuitously betray themselves by ordering a wodka and a hunk of bear sausage? How are we to know how many of the merry troupe of Saddam decoys wore natural and how many false black dictatorial stripes on their deceptively uniform upper lips?

Consider, now, the dramatic implications of this facial livery: Consider those same bosomy vixens mentioned above, and ask yourself, how else would those talented ladies have found opportunity to act upon the great Shakespeare’s stage, were it not for the subterfuge of the faux beer-strainer? How else would Tom Stoppard and company have afforded us the tender imagery of Gwyneth Paltrow and Joseph Fiennes demonstrating the Love in which the Bard fictionally found himself, had the aristocratic Ms. Paltrow not first applied the wispy tendrils of her aspiration to her upper lip and then herself to the legitimate stage? Conversely, how else would the early (and later) dramatists have woven steamy hot girl-on-girl undertones into their staid narratives were it not for the fake moustache and the opportunity it afforded for young maidens to be passionately drawn to the masculine-like charms of their disguised peers?

Finally, think of the multitude of ways in which the youth of this world have benefited from the widespread availability of this most significant piece of costumery. Think of the many pool halls, R-rated films, and grand balls—strictly the territory of the fully matured, of course—that curious and crafty children, stacked one upon the other, have gained access to with just the help of an extra-large overcoat, a bowler hat, a practiced “harrumph,” and, of course, a fake moustache fashioned from construction paper! Remember, when judging the fake moustache, all the 14-year-olds who would never have had the opportunity to test drive a Corvette were it not for a quality pair of sunglasses and a quality self-adhesive patch of synthetic hair. Also, can anyone deny the singular pleasure of seeing a baby wearing a moustache?

I believe the evidence I’ve submitted is sufficient and, with due deference to Mssrs. Fingers, Hitler, Trebek, and Arthur, sufficiently incontrovertible to declare the fake moustache history’s greatest moustache. I thank you. And Groucho Marx thanks you.