Category Archives: That’s crazy talk

With the best will in the world, writing “World’s Fastest Super-Car!” across the bonnet of your  1984 Ford Escort won’t magically make it so.

Thanks to Bwalya Newton

Well, right off the bat, I can see three problems here.

A) “Hog” has never, in this or any parallel universe, been short for “hedgehog”.

B) The hedgehog depicted here looks to be either paralytically drunk or suffering from severe mental retardation. Either way – unsavoury.

C) Sticking “yummy!” on there totally changes the meaning of “Let’s go the whole hog” from “Let’s take this activity to its limits” to “Let’s eat a hedgehog”. Why, in the name of all that is sacred, would I want to eat a hedgehog?
The idea of it isn’t even particularly comical, just baffling and a bit nauseating. Queasy confusion – is that really the sensation you want people to feel when they look at you?

It makes you wonder if these T-shirt manufacturers employ any kind of quality  control whatsoever. If they do, I’d imagine that the Quality-Control Manager is the oldest, blindest, deafest, thickest person in the factory, and when they finally keel over, the cigar-chomping floor manager simply grabs whoever’s to hand and pins the still-warm Quality-Control Manager badge on them.

“Here, you!” he barks at an elderly man in brown overalls, wringing out a mop. “What’s your name, old-timer?”

“It’s Sid, Mr Whipsnade, sir,” comes the frail response. “Sid Chumley, sir.”

“Well congratulations, Sid Chumley – you just got promoted. Put this on and go stand over there. You’re Quality-Control Manager now.”

“But… But Mr Whipsnade, sir, I’m just the caretaker ‘ere – I ‘ave been for 46 years now. I don’t know anyfin’ about controllin’ any managed qualities…”

“Oh pish-posh, Sid – you’ll soon get the hang of it. Off you toddle now.”

It’s a fretful, heavily burdened Sid who returns home that night to his kindly wife of 52 years.

“Ada, I’ve absolutely no idea what I’m doin’! They showed me somethin’ with a hedgehog on it and asked if it was okay to get ‘signed-off’, and I just stood there  noddin’ away like a daft flippin’ monkey! I’m out of me depth, love. I just want to go back on the mops!”

“Eeeh, don’t fret Sid love, I’m sure you’re doin’ a grand job! I’m so proud of you. My husband, the Quality-Control Manager! I’ll make you some extra-special butties for your lunch tomorrow. Special butties for an important businessman!”

Thanks to Mike Shaw

Translated into English, this reads “silence, road, girl, milk”. If you can deduce what the next word in that sequence is, you owe it to your country to contact MI6 and inform them of your prodigious code-breaking skills.

Thanks to Helen Amazing

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

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

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.

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.