Hello again! Your friendly Twin Cities bartender Tommy Nobles here, with a lil' somethin' for ya
I know what it's like out there, folks. I see it every day at my bar. Two nice people are talking, either catching up or just getting to know one another, and here comes the mook armada to ruin the fun. Tight T-shirts, skulls, barbed wire, bedazzled jewels, and fake gold designs almost forcing you to have a seizure from the tackiness. Well, here's a letter you can copy, paste, and email/FaceBook, or even print off that myself and your friends behind all the bars of the Twin Cities have drawn up for you to let somebody know when their Affliction/Ed Hardy douchety has reached critical mass. All you need is his name (but you can probably guess his nickname has some kind of a dawg attached to it from his "bruh") and you can send this to him personally addressed letter of help. You'd be doing the world a favor, kinda like picking up trash in a park, only this park serves awesome drinks and shots, and this trash can grab your ass and quote "I'm On A Boat" all fucking night.
To tell you the truth, ladies, keep a copy in your purse just in case. Is there a better dismissal than giving some D-bag a letter explaining to him why he's such a shitstain at the bar while he's feebly trying to hit on you?
Copy and paste or print this:
Dear, ___________________
(Insert "Afflicted" name like Broseph, Nate Dawg, John-Dawg, Sauce, Sparkles, or whatever latent gay nickname these fucksticks all call each other)
I have news for you: Yes, she sees the skulls on your shirt, and no, she still won't fuck you.
Aw, buddy, did I hurt your feelings? Is that why you're puffing your chest up to disproportionate levels right now? Why are you flexing your arms while you're simply reading? Listen. Stand up right now we're gonna do an intervention.
First of all, I can't let you go any further until we wash the now-crispy LA Looks gel out of your hair. This is also true if you have Aussie Sprunch spray, Dep, or White Rain gel. Stop it. No woman in her right mind has been sitting at home watching NatGeo after "The Dog Whisperer" gets over, sees a porcupine in a preview of an upcoming documentary, and thinks "Gee, I wanna fuck something like that tonight." I know you thought you looked "dope" or "tight" or "pimp juice," while flexing naked in front of the mirror after you crustified your hair, but you don't. You look like a douchebag with a sea urchin on his head. Bravo, Trev-Dawg.
Ok, so now we're washed out, right? Now towel off and keep reading.
Next we're to the Tang Tan. No, I didn't just call it that for all the"PoonTang" you think you're totally gonna score, more like a glass of Tang drink. Fucking orange. I know how frightening pale skin can beI've let off my share of girlish screams when I've gotten undressed in the dark and my pasty white thighs were glowing. But thinking that the answer is coating your fake, syringe-enhanced muscles with liquid Cheeto dust doesn't make you look good, it makes you look like an Oompa Loompa with a serious glandular issue. You're fucking orange! And the best part is with all the steroids shrinking your twig and giggleberries, I'd put a $5 spot down your peenie now resembles a baby carrot. No girl is craving that, no matter how much ranch you promise to buy.
Then we have the latently gay things that you and the rest of Team Sizzle do. All the chest bumps and wrestling maneuvers, all the "playing UFC" and hugging rough with your "Boyz," it's all really, really gaywhich is totally fine. But then after you and Team Wham! Spent all night huddled around each other acting gayer than Clay Aiken singing at Freddie Mercury's AIDS charity ball in a pink sequined prom dress, you call somebody else a "fag" for talking to a girl "you were totally gonna bang." Again, yes she saw the skulls on your T-shirt, and no, she still won't fuck you. What she's doing with the "fag," is using what we in the biz like to call words. We use them to convey thoughts (that's what you call Brain Talkie), emotions (what you call Hulk Smash and suck thumb and sob in corner, only we humans have about a thousand more) and stories (imagine every time you said "So I was totally bonin' this chick" only it was about the truth; something that ACTUALLY happened).
Finally, here we are at ground zero. Your Affliction, Ed Hardy, and Christian Audigier T-shirts. No amount of skulls, or tiger/spider/snake designs, or seizures of glitter and a bedazzler can cover up that stench of douche coming off of you. Ever. I know you bathed in Aqua Di Gio about 20 minutes ago, but all it's doing is drying my eyes out you piece of shitand I'm across the bar. Imagine the singeing of nostrils she's going through while trying to avoid bumping your lil' denim wrapped hard-on and trying not to touch your acne pockmarked back.
Anyway, I know it's hard to read this much, and at this point you're probably wishing they'd just make a movie of this letter starring Vin Diesel so you could learn AND be turned on, so here's the underlying message in condensed form:
Ed Hardy is now available at Costco. For $15 a shirt. That's all there is to say about that. We all fall prey to trends, and yes, I miss my X-brand Girbauds. But take that fucking shirt, hat, and pants off. You look like a clown and Liberace took turns jizzing on you, and then you decided to go out without changing.
Affliction is the official fashion of UFC. You, my friend, are not a UFC fighter. You are a Neanderthal that thinks grabbing women's asses while they walk by and then high five-ing your friends, who then puffs his chest and whines about not knowing what he did when security comes to remove the tumor that is you from our bar. I know, it's tough not knowing what do with your hands when your knuckles AREN'T dragging on the floor, but leave female interaction to the pros. And by pros, I mean those of us that speak in complete sentences without grunts and overuse of "bro" and "buddy" and understand that "I'm On A Boat" and "My New Haircut" are comedy, not words to live by. Buy shirts in your actual size (not 2-3 sizes too small), read a book (not a sports page, not a magazine, a fucking book) and stop yourself the next time your gorilla paws want to grab someone's ass. I know it's tough, but this is adult life. You can't take extra gym credits to even out your GPA in the real world. Sorry, Tom-Dawg. So far, you're averaging an F-.
Dressing exactly like all your friends is retarded anyway. It's like you're wearing a uniform for team Douche, and you know what? Your team fucking sucks. Face it: no amount of Jag Bombs and fist pound exploding will make her cream in her pants, so chill the fuck out. Yes, your arms look big in that shirt, but they'd look big in something that fit comfortably that didn't look like the skull and barbed wire design department at Affliction didn't let Michael J. Fox and Muhammed Ali take turns drawing their designs.
This letter was a plea, an intervention, if you will. The fact you're getting this means that you're a douche, but there's still time to change! Buy grown up clothes, turn off 93x and B96, and act like you've been here before WITHOUT your dad's credit card.
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