SUPER HOMOEROTIC UPDATE: Mairk’s full photoshoot of Saul and Pierre is now available here. Unfortunately there’s no nudity, but I wouldn’t exactly call it "Safe For Work" unless you work with Noah at the GLBT outreach center.

    Well, we are happy to say that our classy little number of a website can now add “Mysterious Twins” to its list of gossip topics – a list formerly limited to such perennial favorites as “Flacidity In All Its Forms,” “Fatness: The New Thin,” “Girls – What’s That Word Again?” and “How To (Not Get Not) Sick From Whiskey.: Yup – you read correctly. The always-ready cameras of our newly-appointed Creative Director, Moustache Mairk, caught Saul’s lackluster twin brother, Pierre, as he ventured onto Hanover turf for the first time since ever.

    A little background on this disburbing revelation: As most of you probably don’t remember, Saul sidled into the hallways of Hanover High School back in 1997, fresh from serving a fifteen-to-life stint in ‘Scoma. Little did anyone know that Saul – eager to take advantage of the enhanced shoplifting that HHS’s proximity to the Co-Op provided – made his move with such haste that he left behind his maladjusted twin, Pierre, whom he cautioned never to venture beyond Route 4 for fear of discovery and subsequent disgrace. Fast-forward more years than we can count, and we have Saul – an apparently upstanding and successful member of the Dartmouth community. Little did he know, as he prepared to leave for his on-campus office last Friday, that much more than his day would be interrupted when a vengeful Pierre roared back into his life on a rusting Kawasaki motorcycle that was older than both of them combined.

    As can be seen, the two environments have had dramatically different effects on the brothers’ lives. We hope you enjoy browsing through the results – whether you prefer your vests made of cheap black leather or fine Merino wool, there should be something for everyone.    

      I called Mairk yesterday morning on the family landline to see how the Etna Mustache March Opening Cermonies were progressing. He put me on speakerphone as he hacked off his wispy man growth with a swiss army knife in the bathroom - he seemed hopeful and excited. The Mairkstache - as he so poetically named it - had a lot to live up to. After all, Mairk’s dad got married in jeans and a  ’stache, making the hairlip a family institution.

Mairk is holding it up well. The picture feels a little "out of focus" but I think it’s just the "mustache magic" in the air.

And Moustache March has begun!

  
By: Mairk
    I have now been unemployed for over two weeks. One of those weeks I spent with my mother and grandmother in Disney World only to be saved by the Willey sisters for an extended weekend.
    It was somewhere in the middle of Florida that I realized that not only was Utah the weirdest state I had ever been in, but that I was starting to get the general feeling that the majority of America just blows. I finally understand why and how our Mr. George W. is our president, and why so many people have a general dislike for the U.S. of A. Everything about it from our waist lines to our servings to our borders is just way to big.
    To top everything off my flight back to Utah from Tampa Bay was via Las Vegas. As we all know from my previous post, me and Las Vegas are not exactly on speaking terms at the moment and I don’t think we will ever patch up our relationship. The moment I stepped out of the runway I heard the digital noise of slot machines. For those of you who have never been to the Vegas airport let me just tell you it is just as shitty as the city. The Las Vegas Visitors Bureau has done an incredible job at portraying the character and emotion of their city in the atmosphere of their airport.
    I arrived back in our little mountain town Tuesday night and by Friday afternoon I had submitted one application for a job that I don’t even want. However in feeling a sense of accomplishment we set our sites on the night and proceeded to get shitfaced. After all, it was Friday and I didn’t have a job, and I didn’t have shit to do. As usual, while pre-gaming we got more inebriated than one should before going to drink at a bar for the rest of the night. The most spirited drinker award was presented to Mr. Small, and that is where my story ends and his begins.
    We embarked for our local throw-your-peanut-shells-on-the-cement-floor alcohol serving establishment. It was at this very same bar where  no more than a week ago our hyper-man child decided to take a piss on that very concrete floor near the Big Buck Hunter gaming machine in the back. Not to have himself outdone by himself on this night he chose to pull the trigger right at the end of the bar.
    Of course everyone working behind the bar was well acquainted with the entire Small experience. At this point Smalls was swiftly dragged out of the bar by his shoulders, shit eating grin on his face, shaking his clasped hands from left to right as a 1920’s bare knuckle prize fighter may have once done. Following not twenty feet behind was his baby sitter we had hired for the night, his younger sister.
    Reports from the babysitter tell us that once outside the bar, Smalls chose to take a piss in the middle of the street as well as on a nearby car, bringing up memories of the piss he took a few weeks ago on the porch of a bar only steps away from the entrance.
    As per usual we didn’t leave the bar once our friend was kicked out, instead we stayed and drank more, assuming that if he was drunk enough to get kicked out of the bar he was drunk enough to find his way home. Instead he found his way to the bar across the street, where he was shockingly allowed to stay and drink till closing time. We stumbled home at staggered times from various places in solo squadrons.
    The next morning, feeling as confused as a newborn as to what had happened the night before, we chose to take a trip to Wal-Mart to purchase nothing other than what any other 24-year-old would want to buy. You guessed correctly we were looking for Heelys at Wal-Mart.
    With wild images running through our heads of rolling down the hill three abreast, to the bar on our heels. Being at the cement floored bar rolling around on our heels with oversized fish bowls filled with PBR. We were going to be Royalty, maybe a heely 360 to impress the ladies. To our amazement it turns out that Wal-Mart doesn’t sell them. Not to be deterred we perused the aisles of Wal-Mart, only to come upon the BB Gun section. “YES, let’s get a BB Gun!” exclaimed Smalls (if you couldn’t tell by the exclamation point).
    Apparently Smalls’ parents would never let him get a BB gun as a child, and after seeing Smalls with a BB gun, I can say that his parents are incredibly intelligent people. They obviously knew the character of their child better than us asshole friends. Living in a rather residential area we weren’t comfortable walking around our canyon neighborhood armed, so we chose to set up a shooting range inside. With a spare piece of rug left on our apartment, we created a pad to “safely” shoot into and attached beer cans and targets. So with our range up and our blinds closed we spent the afternoon drinking beers and shooting the BB gun inside our apartment on a blue sky Saturday with highs in the seventies.
    By the way we purchased a dog mascot head for a dollar at the thrift store.

By: Mairk

We left our secluded little mountain town, pointed the car West for Salt Lake City with the intention of hitting golf balls due to the warm weather. As soon as we made it to Salt Lake City, the car as if drawn to a magnet sharply turned South on I-15 signs loomed overhead with bold letters LAS VEGAS. The "what the fuck" moment spoken by pre-fame Booger/Charles Demar in Risky Business came and went. We headed to Vegas, excitement abound (Strike 1). Where were we to stay? A simple phone call placed to one Mrs. H remedied that problem. You heard it correctly, I called my mother en route to Vegas and asked her to book me and my co-pilot a hotel room in Vegas (on her card). The stipulation being no hookers. Those were my mothers exact words, "No Hookers!" The six hour car ride was filled with joy, we spoke of what we would do, the various sexual acts we could pay for. Not once thinking we should pick some girls up at the casino, bar, street. Unfortuneately none of this happened, we couldn’t even pay a girl to hook up with us. First stop in Vegas was of course the Flying J truck stop where our grocery list included collared shirts (mine pictured above), deoderant, condoms, and a tin of skoal (Vegas Baby). We promptly made our way to the Luxor Hotel at the end of the strip and checked in to our room. It was at this moment that we bent over grabbed our ankles and assumed the position in preparation for Vegas to violently fuck us in the ass.
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Dear Sirs,

This is Lift Foreman Mairk reporting from the State of Latter Day Saints and I have one thing to say about that. Polygamy is like a gun rack: I don’t own ahhhh gun, let alone many guns that would necessitate an entire rack.

Of course I chose to come out during the worst winter in years. The last two weeks have been in the high forties, although today our savior managed to drop a foot at the top, and rain on me. Although I fear a drop in my stock price I will admit that I am not the head chair lift operator, I am what they title a Lift Foreman, a job I managed to acquire after just one week of being a liftee. This title simply means that I babysit Argentinians and Brazilians, tell them when to go on break, drive a badass truck, sometimes a snowmachine, and try not to launch little kids off of lifts (they go flying).

As some of you may know I am primed for Moustache March, the enclosed picture showcases what has been above my lip since the middle of October when one Brian Venti and myself lost a bet in a game of Darts. Needless to say I have received many a positive comment from the male gender, and many an awkward look/stare/glare/overall look of discomfort from the Female gender. The best being “wow, you still have your moustache” from Venti’s female roomate. Here’s to another month and a half.

I would invite you to come visit, then again I don’t care to see any of you or wake up at 6:00 in the morning and see you sleeping on my couch as I walk out the door to go work a job that requires absolutely no thought or skill.

I almost forgot, a couple of weeks ago I backed into a car with the company truck, I drove off as if nothing happened. Of course someone saw me, and I knew they saw, yet still I drove off with the Brazilians saying “no, you didn’t hit it, there’s no dent, lets
go.” Well there was a dent, so I had to go to the clinic and pee in a cup. The nurse who I handed my pee to was hot, and of course all I did was look at her and wonder. I suck at life.

-Wish We Weren’t Friends,

Mairk