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Just woke up. My moustache is still caught in the car door. What do?
Shit, dude. Do you have any idea how little your description narrows things down? Do you have any idea on the regularity with which vast flocks of moustachioed men accost me on exactly this? It's hell, darling. They call me the Moustache Whisperer for a reason, you know.
But okay. Which side of the car door are you on? Inside or outside?
Inside? Then I may just have to out you on clamping and imprisoning your moustache yourself. Is this self-flagellation? Might you be one of those wacky albino Opus Dei poofs from The Da Vinci Code? Geez, dude. You are, aren't you. If I had a dollar, etc. Come on. You know that novel was mostly bullshit, right? One of the biggest reasons its author Dan Brown copped so much Catholic flak was his propensity for hallucinating stupendous Catholic conspiracies left and right. Seriously, check out Opus Dei's own website. Bitch bitch BITCH.
But! Concealed beneath all that scathe-osity? I do declare! It seems I sense a tone of grudging gratitude! For, y'know, Putting Catholicism On The Map. Preach, sistah. I'm from New Zealand. Half my country's media fawns and dribbles over any kind of even vaguely positive international news coverage. The other half castigates the first half for its "cultural cringe", as they label it.
Same here? For several darkly glorious years, praise be to Dan Brown's wankery, the world's muggles mistook Opus Dei for, like, a suave and swanky chain of phat reptilian nightclubs, with the world's Al Capones grovelling and kowtowing to their bouncers for pretty-please just five minutes of entry. So I have significant sympathy for how you Opus Dei deadbeat dorks must feel. For sixteen glorious global minutes, you'd become the coolest of the cool. I was as astounded as the next woman when we all discovered Opus Dei turned out to be some kind of moth-eaten vacuum cleaner repair depot. Soz br0. So open your car door, you attention-starved friggin' numpty, cease your coolness-mooching, and email Dan Brown that he needs to write funkier conspiracies.
But if you're outside the car? Oh dear. That's different. Sounds like you'd Displeased the car's owner. Surely you're not currently being dragged around your neighbourhood by your facial hair at hideous velocities? Wow. If you'd snoozed through that bullshit until waking up just now, then you must have the worst case of narcolepsy in the entire universe. See a shrink! But even so, really d00d? Is immediately texting me about this really the circumspect-est use of your time? You rate blathering to moi over halting ablating your butt-cheeks? Enslaved to your phone 24/7, athirst for the validation of Internet Strangers? Ugh. You friggin' whipper-snapper. I bet you're one of those ghastly socials-junkie Influencers. You are, aren't you. Geez. Are you Clavicular? On top of being an Opus Dei wannabe-tycoon? Yeah. Busted. Which Parisian motorist did you piss off this time?
Now my own worldly experiences concerning receiving a luvverly moustache-hauling seldom involve car doors, but I'd imagine it's excruciating. My advice here, if you'll take it, is to whip out the ol' clippers and abandon your moustache's lower ramparts to your captors like it's an even wigglier gecko tail. For best results, first taser your walrus-whiskers to get 'em extra-jazzy like Doctor Robotnik. Your vehicular adversaries will think it's you, just long enough to make your Daring Escape.
Though honestly, dude? Do all the above anyway. It'd constitute vastly superior Socials-fodder than all your jawbone-smashing bullshit. Not only will you have a wicked-sick thwarted kidnapping tale to tell, but also! A narcoleptic Clavicular rocking (1) an Opus Dei Paladin-Chic aura, and (2) a luscious and extra-deluxe Doctor Robotnik moustache? What a look! What a vibe! What a rad dude! Go on. Give it the ol' college try. You'll be the talk of the Internet and girls will actually like you.