There it was once again. It had been there during times of glory and strife. During times of sunshine and rain.
Win or lose, Sidney Crosby's upper lip was there, mocking us, and today was no different. In his first game back after nearly a year he was going to show the world what he was. He wasn't just the greatest hockey talent of his generation. He was, in fact, a cowboy. He was a fighter pilot. He was Magnum, P.I.
The casual onlooker might give him the benefit of the doubt. He is still a kid in many respects but his brashness will not be denied. "You question my fullness?!" Crosby's moustache cries from the mountain tops. It begs to be seen. It wants you to look upon it and tremble in the fear of its potential!
It doesn't matter that mothers who fail to recognize him would be wise to hide their children.
It doesn't matter that moustaches the world over feel sadness upon meeting it.
Rather, it gives hope to all who one day wish to have what Lanny McDonald, Eddie Shack, Bill McCreary, and Joel Quenneville have. A pushbroom. A cookie duster. A nose neighbor, flavor saver, lip cap, and soup strainer.
A weasel penis.
Some may refer to Sidney Crosby's moustache as a picket fence. Others may refer to it as a war crime. Instead we should recognize it what it is: a mantle of courage.
Sid tries hard year in an out to show the world that he is not only the greatest hockey player, but that he is a man, damnit! Those who would disparage that thing on his upper lip that makes reasonable men want to call the police are wrong. Dead wrong.
It isn't his fault!
One day we will see, and quake and weep as we gaze upon its majesty.