60 Choir Puns That Really Hit the Right Note
I’ve been singing in choirs on and off since I was eleven, and the one thing I know for sure is that choir people are deeply, irreversibly weird.
Mustaches are having a moment, again, and honestly I don’t think they ever really stopped. My uncle Frank has had the same chevron since 1987 and refuses to acknowledge that trends come and go. To him it’s just his face. Anyway, I’ve been collecting mustache puns like a man hoarding wax tins, and here’s what fell out of my brain.
A good mustache isn’t just an accessory, it’s a must-have.
I went to the store for mustache wax and it turned into a full stache-and-grab situation. Walked out with three tins, a boar bristle comb, and a sense of purpose I haven’t felt since 2019.
His new mustache is really growing on me.
Why did the mustache break up with the beard? It was tired of playing second fiddle on the face.
My grandfather’s mustache comb was passed down through three generations. A genuine family hair-loom. I keep it in a velvet pouch like the relic it is, and every time I use it I feel like I’m channeling some ancestral grooming energy. The man had a walrus mustache you could set a clock to, perfectly symmetrical, never a stray bristle. I didn’t inherit his mustache genetics, but I inherited the comb, and tbh that might be better.
That handlebar is handle-bar none the best I’ve ever seen.
His mustache was a true mustache-terpiece.
(I know. I KNOW. But you were thinking it too.)
“How long did it take you to grow that?”
“I don’t know, it’s been a real grow-ing concern.”
Look, “fuzz” does a lot of heavy lifting in the mustache pun world. I’m not gonna pretend otherwise.
He could wax poetic about his mustache for hours. And he did. At Thanksgiving. Every year.
I really need to brush up on my grooming skills.
What do you call a perfectly styled mustache? A stache-tement piece.
His Dalí mustache was absolutely Dalí-ghtful.
This one only works if you know that Salvador Dalí’s mustache was essentially a separate art installation living on his face. The man waxed it into points that defied gravity and good taste simultaneously. Wait, I’m not supposed to use that word. The man waxed it into points that defied gravity AND good taste, at the same time, with conviction.
Hair today, gone tomorrow, the mustache grower’s eternal anxiety.
He was so dapper-ate to grow a mustache.
Yeah, that one’s a stretch. Moving on.
I told my friend his mustache looked incredible and he said it was just lip service. I said no, that’s literally what a mustache IS.
The annual mustache competition was a fuzz-tival of epic proportions.
Keep a stiff upper lip. Especially if there’s a mustache on it.
Stache-tisfaction guaranteed. ✌️
Why was the mustache such a good detective? It always bristled at the first sign of trouble.
He whisked his whiskers away from the soup bowl just in time. Barely.
Side note, the soup thing is real and nobody talks about it enough. Every mustache guy has a complicated relationship with tomato bisque. It’s the unspoken brotherhood.
Growing a mustache in this family isn’t a choice. It’s hair-itage.
His mustache was the mane attraction at the party, which is weird because mane is a hair word but not really a mustache word, but here we are and I’m committed.
I need to pencil in some time to trim my pencil mustache.
Double wordplay. Pencil in / pencil mustache. This is the kind of thing that keeps me writing this blog instead of doing anything productive. I genuinely smiled when I thought of this one, and I don’t care if that’s sad.
He had a brush with greatness. Literally. It was a Kent brand boar bristle.
What do you call a mustache that’s also a legal defense? A stache-tute of limitations.
His walrus mustache was always walrus-tling with gravity.
(This is bad. I’m including it anyway because I spent four minutes on it and that’s four minutes I’ll never get back.)
“Are you gonna shave it?”
“I’m stache-ing the odds against that ever happening.”
That mustache trim was trim-endous.
Their love for facial hair started as a casual flirtation, a little stubble here, some patchy growth there. But over time it became a full-blown grow-mance. He and his mustache were inseparable. His wife was less enthusiastic.
He was grooming for success, one hair at a time.
His mustache jokes were hair-larious. His audience disagreed, but he had the mustache so he had the authority.
What’s a mustache’s favorite superhero team? The Fuzz-tice League.
His mustache was a stache-tistical anomaly, three standard deviations above the mean in both thickness and style.
If you’ve taken a stats class, this one hits different. If you haven’t, just trust me, it’s nerd-funny.
Nice stache. Is that your whole personality or just most of it? 😘
He was curl-tivating his mustache with the patience of a man who has nowhere to be.
Not gonna lie, growing a mustache was NOT a hair-brained idea for him. For me? Absolutely hair-brained. I looked like a middle schooler trying to buy beer.
His mustache was ready for a lip-sync battle.
His mustache was as old and wise as a bristle-cone pine.
Bristlecone pines can live for over 5,000 years. They’re gnarled, weathered, and magnificent, kinda like the mustache on every old jazz musician I’ve ever admired. This pun is niche and I don’t care. It’s for the dendrochronology crowd and the three of them who read this blog.
The itchiness in week two? Just grow-ing pains.
He was hair-splitting over whether to trim the left side by one more millimeter. This is not a joke. This is just what having a mustache is like.
What did the mustache say to the razor? “You’re cutting me out of the picture.”
He was bristle-ing with excitement for Movember.
Lip service provider. 💈
His mustache made lip-reading practically impossible, which was either a bug or a feature depending on what he was saying.
I told him his mustache got him into a lip-sticking situation. He didn’t laugh. His girlfriend (who’d just kissed him and gotten a mouthful of wax) also didn’t laugh. I laughed enough for everyone.
He was waxing eloquent about the benefits of Hungarian-style wax vs. the American stuff, and honestly after twenty minutes I started to care? Like genuinely. The man was persuasive.
That mustache was a real lip-smacker.
His mustache deserved its own stache-tuary. Bronze. Life-size. Mounted in the town square. I’m not kidding, some mustaches transcend the face they’re on and become public property. Spiritual heritage of the community, if you will.
He rode into the competition on his handlebar of justice.
(Ngl this one makes almost no sense and I love it for that.)
“Are you mustache-ing the question or begging it?”
“Both. And the question is: should I grow it longer?”
His barber was the best lip-service provider in the tri-state area. Five stars. Accepts walk-ins.
A stache-tistical analysis confirmed what we already knew: mustaches make everyone 40% more interesting. Sample size: my uncle Frank. Margin of error: enormous.
He was mustache-ing for compliments and everyone knew it, but the mustache was good enough that they gave them anyway. That’s the thing about a great mustache, it earns the vanity. You can’t be humble about something that magnificent sitting on your face, demanding to be acknowledged every time you walk into a room. It’s not arrogance. It’s accuracy.
His mustache was lip-sync-ing for its life. (RuPaul’s Drag Race fans, I see you.)
A hair-raising tale: he sneezed mid-trim and lost the whole right side. Moment of silence.
He was a real fuzz-ball and proud of it.
What’s a mustache’s favorite type of music? Bristle-pop.
Okay that’s terrible. That might be the worst one on this list. I’m leaving it because deleting it feels like admitting defeat.
He was mustache-ing the way for a new era of facial hair. A pioneer. A visionary. A guy who just didn’t feel like shaving and retroactively made it a philosophy.
The mustache competition came to a stache-tisfying conclusion, Frank won. Obviously. The man’s been training since ’87.
Anyway, if you need me I’ll be applying wax and pretending that counts as a personality. ✌️ Stache responsibly.
I’ve been singing in choirs on and off since I was eleven, and the one thing I know for sure is that choir people are deeply, irreversibly weird.
Sans is one of those words that punches way above its weight class.
Moose are inherently funny animals and I will not be taking questions on this.
Toes are objectively the funniest body part. I don’t make the rules.
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