A satirical weekly article highlighting fictious moments in Midwestern history
By Silas P. Whitmore, Fargo, Dakota Territory, March, 14 1879
On this fine yet brisk March day, the city of Fargo, Dakota Territory, witnessed an event so utterly perplexing that even the wisest of local historians struggle to explain it with any semblance of dignity. The occasion? The first-ever—and quite possibly last—Great Dakota Mustache Competition.
It all began when a particularly hirsute tavern owner, one Ezekiel “Zeke” Morrison, tired of the mundane goings-on of his saloon and decided to stir the pot by challenging the menfolk of Fargo to a contest of facial hair prowess. “A fine mustache is the mark of a fine man,” Zeke proclaimed to a rather confused gathering of farmers, shopkeepers, and unsuspecting travelers, all of whom had somehow found themselves embroiled in this strange affair. It was a Saturday afternoon, and the tavern was packed with patrons who had clearly not been given the option of politely refusing.
As the word spread, men from all walks of life—from the lumberjacks of the north to the farmers of the south—lined up to showcase their mustachioed magnificence. Some arrived with delicate wisps of hair that barely brushed the corners of their lips, while others presented mustaches so grandiose they seemed to defy the very laws of facial follicle growth.
The competition, however, was not without its controversies. A local barber, named Horace “Whiskers” McCullough, who had spent decades perfecting the art of mustache cultivation, took offense when his bushy top lip wasn’t immediately crowned the winner. In a fit of indignation, he pulled out a pair of scissors, declared himself the judge, and began trimming anyone’s mustache that he deemed “unworthy” of the competition. This sparked a lively debate, after a brief scuffle, on whether a “trimmed” mustache could still be considered a “true” mustache, and what, in fact, counted as a “real” mustache to begin with.
The judging process was even more absurd. The “panel of esteemed judges” included a blind vagabond in his twilight years, a ten-year-old daughter of the town magistrate, and a deaf mute who communicated his thoughts via energetic pantomime—none of whom appeared particularly qualified to evaluate facial hair. Yet, the crowd, now thoroughly invested, treated the entire spectacle as though it were a matter of life and death. Some even placed bets, wagering everything from pigs to full grain silos on the outcome.
When all was said and done, the “winner” was a farmer named Enoch B. “Big Bart” Johnson, whose mustache was so thick and wild it seemed to have a personality of its own. Enoch, an unassuming man of few words, was awarded a gold watch that, unbeknownst to him, had been stolen the previous week from the local undertaker’s back pocket.
The event ended with much handshaking, mustache-stroking, and an awkward moment when Zeke Morrison, in his zeal to crown a victor, tripped and fell into a bucket of salt pork. As for the mustache competition itself? Well, it remains a part of Fargo folklore, spoken of in hushed tones as the day when men proved their manliness not with a plow or an axe, but with the sheer force of their facial hair. And, truth be told, it’s likely the last time anyone in the Dakota Territory dared to declare such a spectacle “an official event.”