This is a bit like one of those Magic Eye pictures, in that if you stare at it for long enough, you start to see words hidden beyond the surface. Unfortunately, those words appear to be “woe”, “tit” and “stye”, none of which really evoke the air of breezy chic that the designer was probably going for.
Thanks to Helen Amazing
Posted in That's crazy talk
Am I reading this correctly? I’ve rubbed my eyes like a baffled cartoon character and re-read it several times now, and it still appears to say “Cream beavs and flavour”.
I can only assume that “beavs” is some grim US frat-boy slang for a multitude of vaginas, and that the sudden acrid taste in my mouth is a result of all the bile-laced vomit that’s whooshing unstoppably upwards from my guts.
Thanks to Helen Amazing
Posted in That's crazy talk
This was clearly intended to evoke an air of swooning romance, but with its biohazardy lettering, radiation-blasted flowers and battle-ravaged half-collar, it actually looks like a grim souvenir of a global virus pandemic, worn by an emaciated survivor as they stagger over the rubble, scavenging for dented tins.
“It started with a kiss - that’s all it took for the first recorded case of HF-316 to pass from Patient Zero to a second carrier. And from there, it spread like wildfire: racing across villages, cities, countries, continents, scorching everything in its path, until every street in every land was a hellish carnival of thrashing bodies, coughing up liquefied guts and clawing at rotted-out eye-holes.
“Should mankind ever manage to repopulate this decimated planet, please God, let them find this vest amongst the ruins, that they might heed its chilling warning, handed down from their forefathers, like a harrowing scream in the dark…”
Thanks to Joanna Fuertes-Knight
Posted in Deeply distressing
Division Middle Field – or the Dee! Emm! Eff! – is easily the toughest of all the vague, made-up sporting leagues. It’s far more competitive than the European Challenge Series, the All-Star Premiere Winners Cup or the Global League Championship Association Tournament Trophy.
Go hard or go home! Dee! Emm! Eff! Dee! Emm! Eff!
Thanks to Alex Sim-Wise
Posted in Sportball championships
Well if you can’t even be faffed to write out “university” in full then I can’t be bothered to
“Wow, so you must be – what? 132 years old? Well, you look great. I hope I look half as good when I’m 132!”
Posted in What year is this?
Meaningless T-shirts are evolving, all around us, all the time.
Back in the ’80s, a slogan that read “New York College Sports” would’ve been considered cutting-edge, perhaps even a little daring. Nowadays, you can stick all manner of crazy babbling on there – the kind of frantic lunacy you might overhear a drunken homeless man shouting at himself in the street – plonk it on top of a nightmarish kestrel/lobster hybrid, and nobody will bat an eyelid.
These are jaded, unshockable times we live in.
Thanks to Daniel, Hanover
Posted in Mystical numbering, That's crazy talk
This deranged and chilling collage looks it was put together during an intense art-therapy session, in a high-security prison, by a madman who’s been fitted with an electrified stun-collar.
(Maybe that actually is where Primark get all their designs from. Keeps costs down, I guess. And it would explain a helluva lot).
A burbling cauldron of sexual terror, churning anger and bleak mental anguish, to give this T-shirt its due, it does make you think, “Well, no matter how stressed I might ever feel, at least I’m not plagued by blood-red visions of a disdainful woman who’s sprouting flying-fish wings with a reversed “HELLO” tattooed across them, as a demonically horned “AAAAG!” draws ever nearer, ever louder, like a ceaseless honking klaxon made of murder.”
Don’t stare directly at it, lest it order you to kill a dozen prostitutes.
Posted in That's crazy talk
Superstars don’t need apostrophes, goddamnit – let the little people deal with lowly concerns like punctuation. Once fame embraces you and places that magical silvery 63 upon your shoulder, you become a part of an elite and untouchable club, and if you want to rub the world’s nose in that by wearing a flimsy, shapeless sweatshirt with an askew print-job on it then that is very much your right and privilege.
Posted in Mystical numbering
I’m not entirely sure I want to experience “the sinking feeling” and possibly “loose it all” under the tutelage of a surfer who’s managed to earn himself the nickname “Crippled”. I can just picture this Charles Markton lunatic, insisting on having his paraplegic body strapped to a surfboard and paddled out into the ocean, so that he can be tossed savagely around by ferocious wave after ferocious wave, like a flimsy plastic bag at the mercy of a violent gale.
And what, pray tell, does “The Ace” make of all this? Does he applaud his paralysed partner’s uncowed, gung-ho attitude – or does he grimace bitterly at all the wide-eyed adoration it affords him? Johnny’s always had to play second fiddle to Charles: the surfing world might know them as the Crazy Bros, but it was always Charles who won the trophies, Charles who got the girls, Charles who got the glory. Wonderful Charles, perfect Charles. And even now – even as he eats and defecates through tubes, and communicates through winks and twitches – even now, Charles is still the star.
Bide your time, Johnny. Bide your time, my boy. You’ve already engineered one “accident” for Charles – just make sure that the next one finishes the job. Maybe one day you “forget” to strap Charles down to his surfboard properly. Maybe his body slips loose, at the crest of a thundering wave. Maybe he’s smashed below the water’s surface, helpless, terrified, a silent scream roaring behind his paralysed lips. And maybe you feign horror, guilt, and eventually, bereavement – as all the while, maniacal laughter staggers around your mind like a drunken, unhinged whore.
