Two of the best accepted forms of personal, accessible advice are bonanza stickers and T-shirt slogans. Everyone has apparent a adolescent cutting a T-shirt that proclaims “My parents (or grandparents) visited (pick a abode — the Grand Canyon, Atlantic City, wherever) and all I got was this awful T-shirt.” Cute, eh!
Several years ago, I was accustomed a sweatshirt with “Grandpa” emblazoned beyond the front. Actually, my granddaughter afield presented me with a “Grandma” shirt, meant for my wife. That was because my granddaughter was actual adolescent and had not yet abstruse to read.
During the winter months, I circle cutting the continued sleeved Grandpa shirt with several others that are abnormally balmy and comfortable. In supermarkets, biologic food and coffer lobbies, it is affirmed that complete strangers will attending at my gray hair, again my shirt, and cannot abide the greeting of “hellllooo, Graaandpa.”
I smile and nod my head.
My Penn State T-shirt will arm-twist animadversion from added Nittany Lion alums and my London School of Economics shirt draws comments from bodies who visited the British capital, and appetite to allotment their acknowledgment for the city.
Many T-shirts accept amusing slogans.
These got a cackle from me:
— “Sex Is Like Air: It’s Not Important Unless You Aren’t Getting Any.”
— “My Dog Can Lick Anyone.”
— “Vini, Vidi, Visa: I Came, I Saw, I Did a Little Shopping.”
— “I Accept the Body of a God: Unfortunately, It’s Buddha.”
— “I Used Up All My Sick Days, So I’m Calling in Dead.”
— “Ex-Wife For Sale: Aloof Booty Over Payments.”
— “I got This Shirt When I Turned 40: I HATE This Shirt.”
— “I’d Quit My Job But I Need the Sleep.”
Other T-shirt announcements booty a moment to ponder:
— “Never Underestimate the Power of Stupid Bodies in Large Groups.”
— “Women Who Seek to be Equal to Men Lack Ambition.”
— “Dyslexics Accept Added Fnu.”
— “Four Years of College and Whom Did It Get Me.”
— On a being with a austere beer belly: “Objects Under this T-shirt Are Larger Than They Appear.”
Here are a few of my appropriate favorites:
— “I Am a Bomb Technician: If You See Me Running, Keep Up.”
— “Your Hometown Called. Its Village Idiot Is Missing.”
— “If Going to Church Makes You a Christian, Does Going to a Garage Make You a Car?”
My best admired byword is not a bonanza sticker or T-shirt pronouncement. It was a admonishing assurance by the artisan in the cat-and-mouse allowance of his auto boutique in Morrisons Cove.
“I shoot every fifth salesman. Number four aloof left.”
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