Hello. My Name is: Sister Margherita Jr.

I have always said that if nuns were permitted to have sex, I would join the sisterhood, and I stand by that comment. They're allowed to drink, and I've always thought living the life of a nun would be pretty dreamy. I'm picturing a tightly knit group of women who follow Jesus' example of peace and love, do good deeds and discuss Theology. One of my very smart friends who is always proving me wrong insists that I am over-romanticizing a nun's life. "They're probably just a bunch of lesbians who grew up in religious households and don't know what to do with themselves," she said. "I bet they don't even get along." She may have a point, but I think if nuns were allowed to have sex, this probably would be solved.

The reason I reached out to Sister Margherita was not that I wanted a guru to guide me in a path toward nun-dom. I just love talking about religion, and I'm constantly trying to figure out what I can salvage from Catholicism, a religion that I love and adhere to, albeit with many reservations. A friend from Ohio knows Sister Margherita and suggested I meet with her, so I sent her an e-mail.

That was a mistake. She asked for my phone number and started calling me every morning and e-mailing me several times a day. Her daily voice mail at 8:30 AM was always the same: (I wish I could call you right now and let you hear my Sister Margherita impression -- after hearing about thirty of her voicemails I really have her raspy, New Jersey accent nailed):

Lauren. It's Sister Margherita. I'm 87 ½. I'm getting old and I need someone to replace me. I think you are the one. I'm gonna die soon if you don't call me. God Bless You, Sister Margherita.

Woah, there cowboy, I tried to explain in nun-friendly language. I am not "the one." I don't want to be a nun. I just want to talk about Catholicism. Question number one: Recently, my friend who lives in a convent (LONG STORY) had a slumber party, and we stumbled upon this strange contraption in the living quarters:

What is this thing? Nuns are not supposed to masturbate, so I'm just not going to say what I think this is. I'm trying to get as many Heaven Points as possible. (Negative 10 Heaven Points for writing about this in the first place; Plus 12 Heaven Points for not mentioning aloud that this looks like a nun dildo.)

Anyway, as we all know, sometimes deeply religious people cannot be reasoned with. They can become convinced they are dealing with a higher power and earthly rules do not apply. So Sister M likely thought I was a gift to her from God, and saw me stepping in to become Sister Margherita Jr. just as she was about to retire. (She was 87 1/2, she kept on reminding me. BTW -- who, other than 4 1/2 year olds, counts their ages in halves?)

She has sent me about nine books (including one that she wrote) about entering the Sisterhood and she keeps on inviting me to these weekend long religious retreats. I eventually started lying and saying, "oh shucks, I already am going to another religious retreat that weekend. I'm booked up for the whole year!" (I'm fully aware that this is not the right thing to do.)

This led to the age old question, that I'm sure we've all grappled with: how do you break up with a nun? It's not you, Sister Margherita, it's me. I'm not ready for a serious relationship right now. I'm just not that into you.

My mom suggested that I just show Sister Margherita my true colors.

"Why don't you just go on one of your rants about how Mary was not a virgin or give her your Jesus/Charles Manson comparison," she suggested.

"Good idea," I said.

"Or tell her how much you drink."

"Okay, yeah I see where you're going with this."

"Or meet her, and wear one of your slutty outfits."

"Okay, mom, I get it."

"Just be yourself."

"OKAY."

The e-mails have slowed down, but I recently got a request from Sister Margherita from a social networking site that allows people to share their e-mail address books with each other. A few things about this:

1) When did Sister M get to tech savvy? Last time we talked, I think she thought that e-mail was like AIM, because she would send me a new e-mail every six minutes saying, "where are you?"

2) Why does she want access to my address book? I can only assume she's going to try to contact and brainwash all of my friends and family into believing that I am "the one" and to help me admit defeat and accept my fate as Sister Margherita Jr.

3) I do not want access to Sister Margherita's address book.

4) Why on earth would I agree to doing this?

Questions for you: how do I break up with a nun, and what is this thing? Also, if you get an e-mail from Sister M implying that I am nun material, ignore it. She is wrong. Also, raise your hand if you think all of this means I'm going to hell. If you did not raise your hand, what religion are you, and may I join that religion?

Poorly Made Professional Cakes Are Hilarious

I'm literally dying at this cake. Ok, so I'm clearly not dying, which makes my use of 'literally' asinine. Regardless, this cake brings me so much joy it should be illegal. Best part? It's professionally made. And I suppose I need not mention that it reads: "What's up! Gotta Go! Out of Town." I would love to know what this cake decorator had in mind with colorful clusterfuck of teen-text-y phrases.

I found this gem on one of my favorite blogs - Cake Wrecks; when professional cakes go horribly, hilariously wrong. The blogger, Jen, is genius. And so are the heinous cakes featured on the blog. In case you don't shit-show cakes as much as I do, she also posts beautifully done cakes on Sundays. Here is a little sample:


Fraggle Rock cake. Amazing. I will give you $12 in cash if you can find a Fraggle Rock cake better than this ($12 is all I have, sorry).

Shower Belly and the Problem With Over-Sharing

I am an over-sharer. A few months ago on a first date after about a fourth of a glass of wine I decided to tell my new acquaintance about Shower Belly. Shower Belly is a secret I had kept for more than 20 years -- it's my morning shower ritual of rubbing a layer of soap onto my belly and drawing pictures and patterns in the suds. I've done this every morning since I can remember and until that moment, nobody knew. I felt as if I had betrayed a little of myself, and also, I should add, this is not a good dating tactic. (The cat is out of the bag on Shower Belly, so I don't mind blogging about it.)

You'd probably assume that Facebook would be deadly weapons for an over-sharer. But I am wary to make status updates and don't allow myself access to the site when I'm drinking. (This is necessary restraint.) I am constantly aware of Facebook status updates that are annoying. You know, the ones that show off how many miles someone just ran, or the awesome sandwich they are eating, or how much they love their engagement ring. I specifically think it's annoying when people say things like, "Grandma, I miss you, Rest In Peace." I've actually seen shit like that and I don't want to be one of those people.

On Friday, I made a status update that said, "A moment of silence for Buddy, 1997 - 2009, the best boy in the world," to memorialize my cat who had died that morning. I didn't think it was a big deal but people immediately started commenting on it. ("Oh no!" "I'm so sorry!") and within a few hours the thread took up about three kilometers of wall space. This annoying post was now growing beyond my control. I hadn't intended to cause a fuss or fish for pity; I only wanted to give little Buddy Edward a moment of recognition.

I think this caused me to have an epiphany about annoying status updates: idle hands are the devil's playground. I had been incredibly bored that day. Due to a slight medical emergency, I was trying to work from home, in bed with my lap top, but I was getting distracted and since I wasn't in the office, I was much less busy. So I had alllllll day to think about the two big things that were happening to me that day: the fact that I was recovering from a medical procedure and the fact that my cat died. Instead of updating everyone about my lady parts, I updated about Buddy. (YOU'RE WELCOME.) Fortunately, the meds caused me to pass out face down on my computer, so I couldn't do any more damage. But the takeaway was that when you don’t have enough to think about, uninteresting things seem more significant, and worthy of an update than they actually are.

Also, posting a pet's death is slightly less annoying than a grandmother's. For some reason it almost seems insulting to open up a death to the Facebook status realm. But it's okay to do with a pet (who doesn’t get an obituary or a funeral) and adorable if the person posts a picture of that cat wearing a sombrero. (CHECK.) I will be more careful in the future, though, about updating my status.

I don't like Twitter and the only good thing about it is listening to old people talk about it. John Roberts, the elder-ish, renowned news anchor of CNN American Morning was talking about it with some social networking expert asking questions like, "Do you think The Twitter will catch on?" And you could just see in his eyes, that although he has a Twitter account, he doesn't understand its purpose. It's a Gen Y Thing.

It's unfortunate that Twitter is alienating Senior Citizens, though. I wish my Grandma had a Twitter account. Knowing her, her tweets would be much more amusing than Kal Penn's disappointing tweets about watching Lost or reading The Guardian. (I am waiting for him to post about when he's coming to the East Coast and his exact locations, or I try to gleam information about what kind of hair-do he prefers on girls so I can get that hair-do. Although I have started watching Lost and reading The Guardian.)

Tweeting with Grandma:
Joycey_P: They raised the price of JB& Water at the Legion! Rip! Off!
Joycey_P: Wish those goddam birds would stop chirping. Playing my numbers at the club now.
Joycey_P: Love Jim Jam! Check it out! http://sendables.jibjab.com/
Lauren_P: @Joycey_P you mean jib jab
Joycey_P: @Lauren_P Jimmity Jill?
Lauren_P: @Joycey_P no it's jib jab
Joycey_P: @Lauren_P Jin Jan
Lauren_P: @Joycey_P JIB JAB

The Mother/Daughter Facebook Contract

My mother is now on Facebook, and we agreed right from the start not to be Facebook friends. I talk to my mom at least once a day on the phone and share with her literally every detail of my life. ("Hear that noise, mom? Yeah, I'm peeing. Wow, I must have had a lot of cranberry juice today!") But it seemed like Facebook could be the one place where the line was drawn: mother from daughter. It could be the one realm I have to my own, kind of like a "Dear Diary" Teen-Hangout, if that makes any sense.

But I started to wonder if it was really that big of a deal. My Facebook profile is actually pretty boring, and lots of stuff in the Personal Information section would make my mother proud:

You may think the photo section might be dicey, but I avoided cameras all throughout college and there is only one picture even close to inappropriate -- I'm flicking off the camera -- and she is in it.

As for the wall situation, I don't have any friends posting things like "HEY LAUREN THANKS FOR THE RIM JOB LAST NIGHT" or "HOW MUCH MONEY DO YOU WANT FOR THE COCAINE?" so I don't think I have to worry about some unknown dark side being exposed.

So what would be the big deal, really?

I'll tell you what's the big deal. If my mom is my Facebook friend, she will look at my profile for hours a day with painstaking scrutiny. She will check it more than I do, or anyone else does. She will learn things about me that I didn't even know. I can hear it now: "Lauren, you have had a lot of posts from guys on your wall. Are you turning into one of those guy's girl bitches who has to worry about getting gang banged?" She might not say it like that, but I'll start worrying about it, anyway. Or "Lauren, 82% of your photos you're glaring at the camera. I think you need to have a better attitude." I can't actually hear her saying that, either. My mama gave me my attitude. But you know what I mean. I don't want to start learning these things about myself. I don't want someone looking at my life closer than I do.

If I do agree to befriend my mom, we are going to have to lay out some ground rules. In fact, I believe a contract might be in order. I'm drafting one now:

This Partnership Agreement is made on June 18, 2009 between Cheri Passell and Lauren Passell.

1. WTF This is All About
The parties hereby form a partnership to uphold a respectful Facebook friendship.

2. Limited Access
It is understood that as soon as either party figures out how to adjust her privacy settings, she will do so, thereby allowing limited access to the other Facebook friend.

3. Term
The partnership shall begin on July 18, 2009, and shall continue until the rules are breached or one of the Facebook friends changes their minds.

4. Time Spent Looking at Profiles
The parties involved are entitled to look at their friend's profile once a day for 5 minutes.
o The five minutes can be at any time and can be split up if needed.
o This excludes Saturdays and Sundays.

5. Wall Etiquette
All wall posts must be submitted via private message to await approval. Topics of wall posts are limited to: "I just put your check in the mail," "I just bought you a new outfit," and "I'm taking you to Rome."
o Also allowed: funny stories about my father, and, yes, cute things my cats did that day.

6. Photo Tagging
Photos must be approved by the other party before being tagged.
o No photos from bathtime in 1987 or the awkward years of my youth spanning from 1992 - 1998.

7. Arbitration
In the instance of controversy or claim arising out of or relating to this Agreement, or the breach hereof, the friendship will be immediately revoked. The friendship will also be immediately revoked whenever Lauren feels like it. This should keep you on your toes, Mom.

Executed this ______________ day of _________________, 2009 in Hudson, Ohio.

________________________
Signature of Party 1
________________________
Signature of Party 2

Am I forgetting anything here? Anything to add to the contract? I'm serious. Is there some horrible thing I'm forgetting that could happen if I let my mom into my Facebook realm?

FINALLY: Princesses I Can Relate To

When I tell people I want to be a Disney Princess, they never believe me. Perhaps they think I'm kidding or that it isn't possible. Perhaps they do not know that I actually passed a series of auditions in Orlando to become the next Tinkerbell. Perhaps they think that I have nothing in common with Disney Princesses. (I think it's irresponsible to assume that Disney Princesses are able to say no to tequila shots, don't like to talk about buttcheeks, and enjoy the company of children.) Well for those haters out there, here is the pic to convince you that I DO have it in me to be a Tink or a Belle. Check out Cindy, here. That's totally me. Now we're talkin'.

Check out the rest of this fucking incredible collection of photos here.

Awesome band names from my Gmail spam filter

Like all important people, I get a lot of email. Some of it, the stuff that isn't dinner invitations from the President or desperate come-ons from attractive celebrities, is junk email that makes no sense. However, within those bites of incomprehensible word salad are croutons of Rainman-esque genius - the subject headings often make great band names. Here's a list of the ones I've found so far:

pork stalk

gaping teen butt

free TV

best manure

bear hunters

seer acuity

cashew lives!

catholic buttfuckers

supermacho elixir

snakeu penetration

turn off the bull

immunity boosters

early pumpkins

vomiting stars

open if you want

See? All of them are keepers. Now go out there and hijack a Xerox machine! I want to see Catholic Buttfuckers flyers up on telephone poles by 6pm sharp!

BFF, Gma

mom, me, grandma on x-mas

My Grandma Joyce has been a single gal for about fifty years, and I have noticed that except for a few small details (I'm still getting my period and don't read paperbacks from Walgreens in bed for 6 hours every night; she doesn't get carded or flirt with under-age Starbucks employees), our lives are very similar. She goes out with guys she hates. I go out with guys I hate. She spends her Sunday nights making herself a nice dinner and drinking an entire bottle of wine. Me, same. We go to movies alone, sometimes on the same day, so we can pretend we saw them together. Also, when together, we often sound like a couple of drunk sailors, swearing up a storm. BFF, Gma.

And like any good granddaughter, I call her every Sunday. Here are a few highlights from our latest conversation:

• "Remember Thingey? You know, Thingey, with the wife?"*
• She referred to her house as a "little adobe hut"
• Oh, and who is this "Suzy Q" person she keeps referring to me as? Is Grandma getting alzheimers?
• She told a story about how she was getting shots after a funeral and realized she went to highschool with the bartender.**
  
• "You know what I mean, Jelly Bean?"
• "I'm sorry, I know this makes no sense to you, but I have never liked Indian people and I'm too old to start now."***
• "I'm too old for this crazy shit."****
• "Those goddam birds wake me up every freakin' morning, I swear I'm going to shoot them with my gun one of these days."*****
  

*She calls everything Thingey.
**The main point of the story was NOT that she went out for shots after a funeral, which I think is far more interesting.
***She knowwwwws how much this bothers me. Old people think they can get away with everything.
****Says this approximately once every four minutes.
*****Thankfully, she doesn't have a gun.

More correspondence from Gettysburg

Dear Dave,

For the love of God and sunny Jesus, WHAT? Out with it. You're interrupting pornography.

Individuals and institutions, alike,

Too many commas; "alike" is not a separate clause, bubba.

faced extraordinary challenges over the last year, and Gettysburg College is hardly immune from the realities of today’s economy.

Why is it that every time I get a letter from the college, I hear change rattling in a tin cup?

Now, more than ever, the College relies on your support to ensure our students receive the same outstanding Gettysburg experience you enjoyed.

You mean the one no one ever mentions aloud because they're too busy reminiscing about "waffle ball" or building unnecessary exercise facilities? Come on now. If you're going to jerk me off, at least spit on your hand first.

With less than a week until the close of this Gettysburg College fund year on May 31, we ask you to consider your circumstances. If you can help the College, won’t you please make a gift to the Gettysburg Fund?

I'm as broke as I was the last time you asked me for money - you know, A MONTH AGO - so no.

If you choose to make a gift, please go online to our secure online giving website or mail your gift (to count in the 2009 fund year, it needs to be postmarked on or before May 31) to the address below.

If you have already mailed your gift, let me be the first to say “Thank you” for all you do for our College.

Not for nothing, but if I ever do give you people any money, I only accept gratitude in the form of memorial plaques. Wood frame too, nothing tacky. Precocious brilliance like mine requires old world craftsmanship, you goddamned artless Philistines.

I hope that as advocates for Gettysburg, we can help the College meet current challenges and move on to the future with great momentum.

Sincerely,

Oh, that's another thing. I also demand that any and all correspondence from the college concerning alumni donations includes the phrase, "more blood for the blood god."

[name withheld]

Asshole.

I Don't Even Know What This Post Is About

I pretty much assume that it's obvious I'm not married. I look like I'm five and obviously never have my shit together. Married people read the New Yorker on the subway and have perfect hair-dos and wear lipstick all the time and go places accompanied by their perfect-looking husband. Right? Did I mention I live on the Upper West Side? This is what I'm dealing with, here.

On a what I thought would be unrelated note, sometimes I wear rings on my ring finger. I'm talking ridiculously large, junk-jewelry rings, that are clearly fake bling. But friends started saying to me, "woah, woah, woah, why do you wear that ring? People will think you're married!" Since I am clearly single-and-ready-to-mingle, they fear this will send mixed messages.

I am so immature that I didn't think actually people examined ring fingers to find possible hook-ups. But apparently they do, and apparently they might think I'm engaged, even if I'm wearing my rabbit ring (left). BTW, if someone is willing to ask me to marry them with this ring, I swear I'll automatically say yes.

To recap what I've learned: wearing my rabbit ring = bad, because it will scare off potential suitors. But wait a second... potential suitors are gross sometimes. I guess that's why Mistaken sells a fake engagement ring to ward off creepy d-bags. Their video, which I posted below, is pretty funny, even though I tend to think the saying "I puked in my mouth" is a tad over-used. I won't be buying the ring, though. My rabbit one seems to be working just fine.

A letter from Gettysburg College

As a very important, monocle-and-top-hat-wearing college graduate, my alma mater keeps in frequent, mostly-unwanted contact with me about very important matters. And by "matters," I of course mean "donations to the college." Here is one such email, with my responses in italics:


Dear Dave,

Yes?

With a few days of spring-like temperatures here and there, we are itching for the warmer weather to stay. Personally, I am sick of the New England snow and wind!

Um...I'm sorry? I hope you don't live in Maine, because you'll be begging for a mid-June blizzard when all those black flies show up.

This time of year also reminds us of two things at Gettysburg.

No, it doesn't.

First, our memories of playing waffle ball

Our what now?

and passing the Frisbee around on Stine Lake, doing homework outside on the steps of the library, walking to classes and watching the lacrosse games among other activities.

Dude, the only things I did in college were masturbate and host a radio show, often simultaneously. You did intend this for Dave *Kiefaber*, right?

Predictably, that’s what the current students are doing on their warm days at Gettysburg.

You forgot sunbathing. See above note concerning masturbation. Now get to the point already.

Second, it reminds me, as your Class Agent and alum of Gettysburg, that the College’s fund year is almost over.

I KNEW IT.

The Gettysburg Fund is vital to providing the continued opportunities we all experienced while on campus. Please consider a gift of $25 towards the Gettysburg Fund to help current students and our class make an impact. Click Here to make your gift online. Your participation is important to me and the College.

Important to you how, exactly? Will you get a cookie if your half-hearted attempt at familiarity works and I donate to the college? Seriously, you could have tried a little harder to win my confidence. That we both know where Stine Lake is and hate the way Servo overcooks their pasta doesn't make us friends, so maybe go beyond generic bullshit the next time you try to extract more blood for the blood god.

Please let me know if you have any questions or if you have any updates you’d like to share.

Eat a dick.

Best,

[names withheld]

WTF Theatre presents: Eagle Man

You know, Americans might very well be a nation of fat lazy blowhards with just enough money to buy guns and wish violent death upon anything that makes us uncomfortable, but you can't say we aren't marketing-savvy. Indeed, we're used to people trying to sell us stuff, and employing just about anything to do it; geckos, cavemen, C-list celebrities exploiting their "random pop culture reference" status, talking syrup bottles, cavemen again, and anthropomorphized money have all seen starring roles in commercials.

And that's just Geico. But if you thought their multiple simutaneous ad campaigns were as weird as it got, allow Eagle Man to shove you further down the rabbit hole.



"Down the rabbit hole" turns out to be appropriate phrasing, because whoever designed that thing took a page from Lewis Carroll's near-constant morphine delirium. Who on earth would accept car insurance from an egg that some colossal male bird squeezed out on their hood? Show me someone who would, and I will throw a net on them until they can be strapped into a coat that makes them hug themselves.

So of course they made a sequel, in which Eagle Woman lays eggs full of car insurance (in mid-flight, even) all over some guy who looks like Dante from Clerks.



The mind reels. It really does.

WTF Is This? I Dunno, But I Stole It.

Last weekend, I stole this from my friends' Jack and Monty's apartment:

Jack claimed it is a bar tool to cut limes on, but I think it just looks like a hippopotamus. I am not worried about Jack and Monty discovering that I looted their place -- they don't read this blog, and I plan to return it to one of them as a birthday present someday. But really, I don't get the lime thing. So I'm trying to think of other uses in my own apartment:

I can remember reading My Book of Bible Stories, a Jehovah's Witness Bible given to me as a gift when I was five and it instantly became my favorite book. My favorite illustration was one of the Egyptian Pharoah sleeping as Joseph sat to the side and interpreted his dreams. The Pharoah slept on not a pillow, but an ornate, uncomfortable looking box-like structure, much like the wooden hippopotamus. So I was sort of hopeful that it would be some sort of dream interpreter or something. But no.

It's also not a head massager, in case you were wondering.

So far, the most likely possibility is that it is a stage for my Iced Animal Cookies Vs. JuJyfruit battles. (Although outnumbered, the Iced Animal Cookies always win.)

Ummm... can anyone think of anything else? If your suggestions do not involve nudity, I will act them out and post pictures of me doing them.

Who Is My Namesake?

I was talking with my parents recently, when my mom casually mentioned that I was named after Lauren Bacall, the husky voiced sex-pot, film star and model who was married to Humphrey Bogart in the 1940's.

Bullshit, Dad said. Lauren's named after Larry.

Larry has been one of my dad's best friends since childhood, and he has become a permanent fixture in our family outings and Sunday dinners -- sort of like the fourth Passell.

On learning this, I was immediately thrown into an inner frenzy of self-reflection and soul searching. Who is my namesake -- Lauren Bacall or Larry? When I told my parents to cut the crap and tell me the truth, Larry butted in, saying, "I'm sure Lauren Bacall and I are exactly alike, so it really doesn't matter." That's very possible.

Lauren Bacall:

• Born Betty Joan Perske in New York City.
• Studied acting for 13 years and worked a a fashion model.
• Best known for being a film noir leading lady in such films as The Big Sleep and Dark Passage.
• Won a Golden Globe Award and was nominated for an Academy Award for her performance in The Mirror Has Two Faces.
• In 1999 was ranked as one of the 25 greatest female stars of all time by the American Film Institute.
• Married to Humphrey Bogart.
• Only child.
  

Larry:

• Born Lawrence Chintella in Farrel, Pennsylvania.
• Has six tattoos (a skull where the bones are actually baseball bats, rolling dice with flame and skulls on them, the word "rudeboy", one that he will not disclose information on, one in Chinese that he will not reveal the meaning, and one in Japanese that he will also not reveal the meaning.)
• Listens exclusively to Rockabilly music.
• Claims his favorite movie is Tank Girl but has never seen it.
• Will not eat orange foods.
• Owns a butter churner.
• Bachelor.
• Told me when I was four that he bought me a pony but my parents wouldn't let me keep it so it was killed.
• Also when I was four, tried to take me on death-defying rides at an illegitimate looking carnival and the CARNY called him an irresponsible guardian.
• Also has "sexy" husky voice (from chain-smoking)
• Dresses himself in Hot Topic gear, black converse sneakers, and a chain wallet.
• Is a genius engineer, who works in a building I like to call the "Imagination Station", but that is not what it is called.

So guys, what do you think? Who do I share a stronger connection with?

Total Eclipse of the Heart... literally.

Words can't even explain my joy with this video. Watch it, and watch it good. Watch all of it. Especially the part about the emo kid throwing the slow motion dove.

Confused? You should be. Delighted? Hell yes.

Good Bush, Bad Bush. You're Not Getting Either.

I was walking in Columbus Circle the other day when I saw a young man wearing the following T:

(In case you can't read: Good Bush, Bad Bush.) I wonder: Why on earth would a guy wear this shirt? Who is he wearing it for? If he wants some bush, he had better get on over to the Gap and get some normal clothing, because girls are not into this shit. (I mean, unless... does someone know a girl who is into this shit?) Is he wearing this shirt for guys? If so, maybe guys should come up with a more subtle way to express their longing for bush, because the consequences for wearing this shirt are probably not worth the up-side, which is making other guys laugh. And can you imagine if you ran into your grandma or mom wearing this shirt?

Also:

WTF? Are they trying to get girls, or are they trying very hard to NOT get girls? After some witty t-shirt slogan browsing, I found the only acceptable t-shirt guys should ever wear: