Saturday, December 31, 2011


Just a quick message to the villain who broke into my car on the day after Christmas and stole several items, notably my wife's new coat:

Thank you.

No seriously, thank you. You reminded me of the true meaning of Christmas, how it is better to give than receive, and to help the less fortunate.

Obviously you are an incredibly unfortunate individual, presumably stricken with a debilitating mental malady that renders you about as useful as your lace-up shoes when you're unsupervised, someone so intellectually crippled that you can't even maintain a job collecting the trays and scraping spackled feces from the toilets at the local Taco Hut.

Judging from the stench of apathy and cigarettes you left in my car I have extrapolated a profile that portrays you as a someone that has given up on themselves, someone who is ok with wearing trackpants in public and their clothes have the telltale lonely existence ammonia fragrance of calcified semen from many a dateless Saturday night. Obviously your visage is nothing less than that of a nicotine stained puckered sphincter, otherwise you would have been spending your weekend cuddling with your sister instead of relieving citizens of their hard earned belongings, rummaging and foraging like a malnourished raccoon, alone. Always alone.

I can only presume you are the same desperate individual who opened the jar of Jif in the supermarket and scooped out a few finger-fulls of extra-creamy peanut butter and placed the jar back on the shelf for me to discover when I actually foolishly purchased it. With actual money! From a job!

So thank you intrepid hoodlum, for reminding me of the dregs of humanity, the stains of the world, those completely devoid of offering anything to society, those so monumentally pathetic that you have validated and strengthened my conviction in my misanthropic ways. I had almost foolishly bought into the whole Christmas cheer nonsense until you selflessly brought me to my senses.

P.S. Enjoy the coat, it can only be returned for an in-store credit at a woman's clothing store. In the Christmas tradition, don thee now your gay apparel, for a pashmina and jeggings can only improve your worthless existence.

Merry Christmas, Peace on Earth, and Goodwill towards Human Trash and Asshats.

Friday, December 23, 2011


From all of us here at Shirt of the Day, aka: me,
Thank you for a great year and your show of support!

Wishing you a SUPER Christmas, Hanukkah, Rohatsu (sorry I'm late), Ramadan, Kwanzaa, Yule, and....whatever....
Have a great holiday and time off work!

I hope to see you all in the New Year, with more Tees, Tales, and My Life In 100% Cotton!

Tuesday, December 20, 2011


Growing up, getting gifts at Christmas was always a crap shoot, hit or miss, depending on the economy and the familial resources. But my folks always tried. The Christmas of 1984 they needed to try a bit harder as it fell very much into the "Completely Fucking Missed" category.

To be honest my favourite part of Christmas morning wasn't the wrapped presents, it was always the stockings, laden with the usual suspects: Terry's chocolate orange, deodorant, socks, underwear. The highlight for this geek was the comics or Starlog magazine rolled into the top. 1984's offering was a huuuuge oversized Star Wars comic, which I still have to this day.
The night before Christmas always saw my brother wallowing in surliness and the parentals wallowing in double spiked eggnog, everyone yelling, snapping, or snarling. The dysfunctional norm was strangely comforting. 

Christmas eve also always found me studiously pouring over the toy section of the Sears Christmas Wishbook with an unparalleled level of consternation. Had I made the right choices? Had I missed anything? Had I gone overboard? Oh god oh god this was so monumentally stressful! Page 574 promised a slithering battle at He-Man's Snake Mountain, and on page 581 Mr. T pitied the fool. I would pass on page 570's Go-Bots (lame), but holy living shazbot check out Blackstar's Ice Castle on page 577! I closed the book with finality. I was confident I had made the right choice: The Star Wars Rancor Pit Monster action figure.

I went to bed early so as to avoid the inevitable taunts from my brother that my parents had lied to me and I was adopted. Little did he realize that this was a fantasy I had long entertained. I'd even created a fictional biography of my life with my birth family, a life where my name was Jack and I had a one-eyed highly evolved telepathic Irish Setter, also named Jack, and these parents let me wear a pith helmet. So it wasn't so much my brutish brother's antagonizing as it was the accompanying Charlie Horse I could do without.

I lay in bed, materialistic images tripping over each other, visions of returned Jedi's and 8-bit Donkey Kongs igniting my imagination before I drifted into reluctant slumber.

I awoke as I normally would, with my brother earnestly smothering me with a pillow. I went limp and feigned death until he panicked and fled the scene of the crime, and then I giddily rushed downstairs, immediately bolting to the object that monopolized my field of vision: The Incredibly Plastic Christmas Tree. 

I don't know how my mother even saw me through her puffy and bloodshot eyes, but her leg shot out, an autonomous appendage, like the Kraken's mighty tentacle, sending me sprawling headfirst amongst baby Jesus and the Lincoln Log Nativity Scene. Uprighting the 2 fallen Wise Men and the Obi-Wan Kenobi that was subbing for the third dog-chewed oracle, I rubbed my shag-carpet-burned chin and glared at the matriarch as she quietly hissed "You will not ruin Christmas...Again. SIT".

I was on notice. And I was sitting. Now I normally don't cotton to being told what to do but I had the wherewithal to realize that a 9" Rancor Pit Monster with 5 count 'em 5 points of articulation was at stake, so I adopted an attitude of fatalistic resignation. Little did I realize that this posture would later manifest itself as antisocial passive aggressive behaviour every December 25th for years to come.

My mother doled out the presents in much the same manner as she did punishments: methodically and painfully drawn out, the corners of her mouth twitching with sadistic glee. My preliminary gifts were neatly piled beside me according to size, a board-game that no-one would play (Tri-Ominos or Othello I believe), some Doctor Who and Fighting Fantasy books, my Annual Bow-Tie (a poor decision early in life that haunted me every Christmas), and something polyester I'm sure, all overshadowed by the anticipation of The Main Event.

I knew the drill. My parents would pretend that all the presents had been dispensed, wait approximately 20 agonizing minutes, and then my father would request I get him something from behind the Amazing-Lava-Colored-Shag-Carpeted-Formica-Topped-Bar (a not uncommon request), and there, gasp, would be one last "forgotten" present, the Main Event. I played along every year with Oscar worthy faux verisimilitude, as it had become almost a Christmas ritual, much like the bow-tie.

I knew something was terribly amiss the second I picked up the parcel. It wasn't boxed. It felt like clothing, and...something else. This definitely wasn't Kenner. I cautiously peeled back the tape, thinking the longer I took to unwrap it the more chance it had to reform into something with corners. The Rudolph adorned wrapping paper fell away revealing The Item. I honestly wasn't sure how to react. This was definitely not the 9" Rancor Pit Monster with 5 count 'em 5 points of articulation, nor was it clothing.

It was a durable canvas traveling/hiking knapsack.

"Uh, thanks?" was all I could muster, as shock and dismay enveloped me in a khaki canvas shroud. "There's more inside" my old man said, his gruff baritone touched by a hint of a smile. Undoing the metal clasps with a not quite steady hand I reached into the bag with trepidation and pulled out the coup de grace: Jumper Cables, very much lacking 5 count 'em 5 points of articulation.

It didn't take long for the realization to set in that this was a preparatory gift, you know, for when I "hit the road, Jack".

To be honest, over the years I've got a lot of use out of both the knapsack and the cables, and like the oversized Star Wars comic, still own both today.

However, in 1984 I was 13 years old.

Merry Christmas.

Monday, December 12, 2011


Why is PTERODACTYL spelled this way?

I bet the guy who named the Pterodactyl has three kids named Dayvyd, P'Timmy, and Knife.

Monday, December 5, 2011


The other day I was forced out into public to rub shoulders with the unwashed masses. This unplanned and unpleasant sojourn had been necessitated by the commerce driven ritual know as Christmas Shopping <shudder>. 

Normally I would ensure that all of my shopping had been completed no later than Halloween because, according to my therapist, my temperament is not conducive at the best of times to be dealing with throngs of shuffling lollygaggers. However, I had been tasked with securing a specific festive item: The Christmas Pickle.

For the solecistic in the class, the Christmas Pickle is not a fermented cucumber, but an ornament hidden within the foliage of the Christmas tree. On Christmas Day the children take turns searching for the pickle, and the child who finds it gets an extra present, a prize for being diligent and observant. Kind of like Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket. Except green. And phallic.

It was during this perilous quest that I overheard an exchange between two inappropriately dressed middle aged mothers. It appeared as if they had actually Dressed Up to go shopping, but had become discombobulated at some point and had stumbled into their sixteen year old daughters closet, by way of a Bootlegger change-room.

Hipster Mom #1 had selected the sensible shoe of choice when walking the length of the mall for extended periods of time: the stiletto-heeled knee-high boot. To ensure one could witness the full glory of these podiatrists nightmare, the cuffs on her jeans had been rolled up several feet, like some Dominatrix Captain Kirk.

Hipster Mom #2 was head to toe in Lululemon. As advertised, this did indeed, and unfortunately, accentuate her buttocks, as well as her lovehandles, and her stretch-marks. It looked like a Breakfast-To-Go bag of cottage cheese, a muffintop, and strip bacon. The hood of her yoga top, which had apparently never seen the interior of a Power Yoga studio, was lined with fur which at first glance I took for a nesting ferret.

I wasn't eavesdropping. My mama didn't raise no Nosey Rosey. I was a hostage, a captive audience. The aisle was barricaded, my flight from the inane dialogue that followed barred by Lulu Lemon's stroller that had the approximate dimensions of a Sherman Tank. And they were LOUD. These attention whoring bubbleheads actually WANTED people to hear their boastful chatter.

Captain Kirk was griping that little Aiden's teachers didn't realize that he was smarter than them and they weren't capable of dealing with his Specialness. She postulated aloud that they were jealous of him. The tyke in question stood sullen at her side, head down, focussed on his Blackberry. She then referred to him as her "Special Little Man" and reached out a veiny and bejeweled hand to tousle the dour moppets fop coifed mane, but stopped herself short, a glimmer of fear flickering in her eyes. I found this last "Special Little Man" statement kind of creepy. He was 11.

Lulu Lemon countered with how she totally understood because her Aiden was also Very Special and Destined for Greatness, why just the other night she was pretty sure that the precocious little sprite had used the word "Klangfarbenmelodie" when putting the finishing touches on his first symphony, and that his use of Deceptive Cadence on the 2 litre saucepan was intentional. He was the one in the Sherman Tank.

This competitive praise heaping was the equivalent of schoolyard "oh yeah, well my dad can beat up your dad" banter, where prowess and success is attributed not to oneself but a third party, in a feeble attempt to deflect away from ones own inadequacies and lack of accomplishments, living vicariously through the achievements of others. 

Kids, I'm gonna give it to you straight: If your parents have told you that you are special, they lied to you. You are as unique as everybody else.

Unless of course you have retractable metal alloy adamantium claws.

Or can shoot lasers out of your eyes.

Or you find the Christmas Pickle.