funny T-shirts

REVEALED: My Gliberal Agenda

{Dear besotted fans and friends:  I know you signed up for deliciously wicked blog posts, not the Avon Lady.  I’m just excited about my new merchandise.  I’ll get over it.  And in getting over it, I promise that, in future, information about merchandise and other collectibles will be on a dedicated page. — DR}

Many of you poor stiffs have been

laboring under the delusion that my goal in having this blog is merely to regale you with my shallow, though admittedly depressingly brilliant, thoughts on life, love, how to cook with Kraft Dinner and the best way of disposing of noxious roommates (free insight: just be yourself, honey, and if that fails, there’s bound to be something by Black & Decker).

Well.  I can hardly bear to think of your reaction when I tell you the truth, though I suspect it make be something akin to:

Errp-oops

That’s like, you going all “errr, OOOPS!”

But back to me—thank you sweet JEEZUS —and a footnote on “gliberal”.  This is my portmanteau word for Gay Liberal, and what a relief that “Gayberal” didn’t make the cut. Though I’m sure you can find any number of floppy haired lads called Gayberal at Upper Canada College, named that way by their twatty Rosedale moms; and very handy, too, on those long winter evenings when boys get bored and the sports move indoors.

Well, then.

Gliberal, however, is NOT, I would like to emphasize,  a hot panini of “liberal” and “glib”. No sirree.

Liberals are not “glib”.

We just tend to be right about everything, and the sheer amount of being right, about everything, day in and day out, means that our obvious yet correct responses and solutions, for all our best intentions, just trip off our tongues a teensy bit faster than we’d like.  OK?  I won’t even start on “Smugerals”.

I like to boycott the whole issue and just say “progressive”.  Now, in Canada, that word was co-opted for years by the “Progressive Conservatives”, the actual party name of the Other Party, and indeed, when I was a lad, you could vote for the PC’s without getting all apologetic in public and, for example, pointing to yourself while going “gagagaga” to indicate that you had recently suffered irreversible brain damage.

This is because—and you youngsters might want to grab your S’mores and cocoa, bundle up under your Hudson’s Bay blankets, sign out of Pornhub and gather round my feet while I explain this bit— this is because the idea of a political party that doesn’t believe in human rights is a relatively new concept and one that obviously takes a LOT of weighing and considering to see if that’s an OK idea before you just say “fuck it, I like his hair” and vote for them.

This is why the U.S. Republicans are trying to relieve the elderly, poor and black—basically anyone who doesn’t golf—from the terrible physical demands of voting, by acts of compassion such as placing polling stations miles out of reach or just gerrymandering the whole lot of them behind barbed wire fences, because it’s just such a burden that, honestly, if you’re not white, 40-something and male, with a big-ass gym membership, not to mention a supply of beef jerky to keep your protein levels up, you’re probably not going to survive an election.  Seriously.

Anyway, now that the Canadian Conservatives have wisely dropped the “Progressive”, you could still think of them as progressive, you just have to remember that they’ve all got their heads screwed on backwards, so although they actually THINK they’re still looking forward, you get the idea.  That’s an important point.

Alrighty, then.

Now I’m finally going to come clean and tell you my secret Gliberal agenda.  It is NOTHING LESS THAN world domination via excruciatingly refined and esoteric merchandise—merchandise as liberally encrusted with my signature dry wit as is with lichen the vast Canadian shield.  Yes, friends.  THAT has been the aim all along.

Bear with me while I emit a single, well-placed bark of evil laughter, punctuated by a judicious stab on the Hammond organ.

I know, princess.  I know.  But daddy’s here.

Whatever, and can I just say, seriously.  If you haven’t visited my sister brand Snatsch’nFoofer  yet—what is wrong with you?  Afraid you’ll break a nail?

I’m adding T-shirts by the second, and I know one of them is bound to tickle your fancy. And while your fancy is being tickled, my Secure Socket Layers, Ultimo-kryptothon-enabled e-commerce back-end—I always get a little thrill down my spine when I write that—will be all laid out, face-down, passive and kinda blotchy with red, if I’m honest, waiting to receive your studly, credit-cardly input.

Don’t be surprised if it bites the pillow.

Coming soon:  “Seventh Chakra”

Subtlety, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind as sixties’ psychedelic meets twenty-first century cynicism in this eye-popping collection of unisex tanks.

chakra-yellow

The next time you’re confronted with Aunt Zelda’s macramé wall hanging or luxuriant armpit hair, just exclaim,

“Well, kick me hard in my seventh chakra!” 

As a bonus, the illegibly distorted font makes for a great conversation starter.  As in, “WTF does your tank top say?!”

 Coming soon to my store.
Advertisements

After All I’ve Done For You— ! (a.k.a. Shameless Self-Promotion)

Look into my eyes. Sink back, back,

back into your chair.

But not so far back that you fall out of the chair onto that straggly-looking cyclamen your grandkids brought you six months ago and that you keep “forgetting” to water, and have to lie there helpless on those freezing-cold tiles for eight hours with your day-time-casual hospital gown all hiked up around your waist as you watch the cleaning staff come in, point at you and laugh.

You know, like last time.  Just a little bit far back, OK?

OK.

Now look into my eyes and hear my voice. Feel the soft—honestly rather pervily-sensual— squish of your filled-to-the-brim adult diaper. Oopsies!  Press the big red button to call for help from the nursing station—except they’ve all gone to smoke crack in the utility closet, and you know, can I just say, honestly. This is how socialism always ends up.

Or is it capitalism, I always get them confused.

‘Cause no matter if they’re gussied up like Chairman Mao and eating monkey brains with chopsticks—or stuffed into a three-piece suit from Brooks Brothers and scarfing duck confit at Per Se—

—no matter whether those rulers you never voted for are crushing protesters in Tiananmen Square with army tanks—or driving stretch Hummers through Times Square as they toss Planet Earth out the windows like so much used kleenex—

—It’s the very same one percent.

The very same one percent with the very same hairy forearms shoved up the servants’ entrances of the very same bent over, wide-opened ninety-nine percent, just exactly the way it’s been since time immemorial—and pardon my cliché, but I haven’t had my coffee yet.

Well, then.  Let’s set that aside for the moment and just listen to my voice. OK?

OK.

Life is good, here at the Sunset Lodge.  Oh yes. You’ve made a lot of friends.

People you only ever read about until now! You’ve met Napoleon, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal!  Oh, and Liz Taylor stopped by. Always flogging that cheap cologne! Well, it keeps the flies off, you told her with a saucy wink, then you cackled with laughter!

Dear Liz, absolutely love the child to bits, what a poppet, but she is not known for her self-deprecating sense of humor.

You’ve met Bernie Sanders!  Yes siree, our very own trouble-haired Nutty Professor himself, and you’ve stolen his Birkenstocks, because—

Just because.  Tee hee.

But though life is generally good, one or two details could use some improvement. Like those hot roast beef sandwiches. Gravy???!!!  Seriously??! They call it curry, or dipping sauce, or sports drink, but it’s all the same brown, viscous glop.

You’d ring up The Toronto Star about it, but your arms are still a bit stiff from “exercise time”, and since when does exercise always involve a 200-lb filipina-lesbian nursing assistant and a leather strap?

But hey!  Let’s just wrap that up in the Pepto-Bismol-pink cloud of love and send it to live the rest of its natural life with Jesus. Or Mohammed, or whoever.  Just fucking try to listen the fuck to my voice or I’ll really give you something to fucking cry about!! OK?!?

OK.

Now that you’re in a state of full relaxation, here’s what I want you to do.  I want you—or your Power of Attorney, I couldn’t give a fuck which one of you—to open your wallet and take out your credit card.  That’s it, hold it lightly between your thumb and index finger. And you know what’s coming next, don’t you?

I want you to BUY MY PRODUCTS.

OH, YES.  BUY. MY. PRODUCTS.

And whether you’re chasing some extra sympathy by dribbling saliva down your chin, or just hangin’ with your homies while finger-painting with the yolks of your soft-boiled eggs, these witty, wearable Gandhi T-shirts—in baby-bottom-soft cotton—are designed to look great AND start conversations that don’t begin with,”You naughty boy, look what you’ve done!”, just like it was before you threw in the towel and began faking urinary incontinence!  Good times, pops. Good times…


Gandhi Tees are here!

Inspired and bemused by the

plethora of misquotes and wrong attributions online, I’ve retaliated with this first set of non-existent quotes by the famous, infamous and just plain dead. My Gandhi Tees will leave you and your friends feeling enlightened – yet confused.

These heart-stoppingly beautiful tees with my original “quotes” and design are totally up-snappable @ $25  $20 CAD  until July 16th only! Be the first to own one of these sure-to-be classics!  

Three concepts:

 

About your Tee: This updated unisex essential fits like a well-loved favorite, featuring a crew neck, short sleeves and designed with superior combed and ring-spun cotton. Sizes XS – XL.

Each concept is available in white and two additional colors , chosen by me to match its design. Below are just a few examples.

 

Shop the T-shirts »

(opens in a new window)