There are a number of matters to which the reader is compelled to devote his time, presently: to the cultivation of meaningful relationships, to the study of weighty texts, to the consumption of wine and spirits. All to the good, that.

Given his paucity of leisure just at the moment, the reader likely has no need for the sort of literary baubles produced occasionally in these pages — of which the current post, featuring an image of Red Sox first-base coach Arnie Beyeler’s mustache and spectacles, is an example.

A brief survey of the author’s emotions, however, reveals that resentment is nowhere to be found. Furthest thing from it, actually. A time to be born and a time to die, a time to read trivial weblogs and a time not to do that. All that kind of thing. What the author has endeavored to provide here, rather, is a sort of diverting thought — in the event that the reader finds a minute or two — which might be contemplated briefly and pleasantly. Refreshed, the reader marches on again — till human voices wake him, and he drowns.

My fancies were tickled when I tuned into the A’s-Indians game just in time to watch Carlos Santana — a player whom I very much like to watch — bat against Daniel Straily, another player I like to watch.

Fancies were tickled further when Straily’s moustachios flashed upon the screen — moustachios not unlike a young, hip dad might have sported in the ’70s or ’80s.

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Burger King,

We used to be cool. We had a nice arrangement. I would give you a small amount of money in exchange for delicious meals prepared my way, so long as my way involved a preset number of vegetables and microwaved meat paste. You have that mascot that technically isn’t but totally is wearing a Guy Fawkes mask. You supplied joy and sustenance to people, and you only screwed up my orders like 14% of the time.

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Earlier this week, I presented Luke Scott’s beard as a current mistake in facial hair. Loyal reader Larry Holt has alerted me to something even worse. Avert your eyes. Not safe for workplace, homeplace, or anyplace.

Courtesy of The Detroit News… which means BLAME THE DETROIT NEWS…

That’s Jose Valverde, and some kind of terribly diseased animal that has attached itself to his chin.

(Bobby Jenks says hello.)

Slim down and shave up,
buy a tie and a cream-
colored polo.

Who needs a mountain
man’s beard if you can
have an IT man’s dribble
of chin hair.

And who needs Santa’s girth
if you can impress the ladies
with the Satan’s bony ribs.

In an unrelated note, I recently lost 35 pounds and shaved my beard. I’m sorry this is how you had to find out.

Cubs color man Jim Deshaies called it the “best mustache in the majors.”

Objections?

(Below, the naked, uncut version of this clip.)
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Has there really not been a NotGraphs post dedicated to Cole Hamels and his mustache?

It’s almost Bobby Valentine-esque.

Crashburn Alley has a great piece about it too.

Andy Moore Burlington Aristocrats Age: 34 B/T: L/L Born: Elizabeth, WV Position(s): P (SP3) View Hardball Dynasty Profile

It’s possible that the author just traded for computer-generated left-hander Andy Moore of Elizabeth, West Virginia, in his Hardball Dynasty league because of Moore’s relatively balanced platoon splits, above-average control rating, and reasonable salary.

What’s probable, though, is that the author traded for computer-generated left-hander Andy Moore owing to his entirely virtual mustache, which one is forced to assume was stolen from a carnival strongman in the year 1913.

One day, Joe Pettini will show them all …

Joe Pettini’s far-off gaze — it smoulders at the today about him just as it aches for the tomorrow before him. He is, for miserable now, a Le Tigre wearer lost in a remorseless hierarchy of Those Who Don Privileged Izods. Whatever mastery the lunchroom table — that steering committee of knaves, where he is not welcome — holds over Joe Pettini, it is as fugitive as the pupa.

The ribs of Joe Pettini encase not only a mighty heart, but also a concrete intake facility — painted in mute, industrial gray, the color of Prussia’s lost battles. Inside that cell subsists Joe Pettini’s numbed will. It is disembodied save for two crispy fingers, and those fingers, each night, summon the hardihood to scrawl a prisoner’s tally of the crudest hours until July 10, 1980.

On that day, all will be shown because Joe Pettini will show them all.

So assail him for now, invertebrates of the homerooms and hallways, but know this: the hunches you mock are the very wounds from which Joe Petini’s thunderclap wings will grow. You shall know him by his talons.

From Fox Sports:

Taking note of his beard, I told Price he’d have to shave if the Yankees traded for him.

“I wouldn’t stay there very long then,” he responded. “I wouldn’t sign a long-term deal there. Those rules, that’s old-school baseball. I was born in ’85. That’s not for me. That’s not something I want to be a part of.”

Anyone want to take part in a David Price facial hair contest? Make your best David Price facial hair jpegs, send ’em to [EDITED: me, because I didn’t mean to overwhelm the NotGraphs tips account with David Price beard pictures], and I’ll post the best on Monday.