(Warning: salty language — all these flavors and you had to be salty?)
I’ve been told that I dress like a dad, but that can’t be true because my dad never dressed this good. I find that I dress like more of a grandpa, but that’s besides the point. Every day I wake up, shower, throw on whatever is first in my closet, and then continue with my day. It’s not really a process I have to think about or pay much attention to because I know that whatever I put on it’ll be fine — nothing I own had Tapout written on the front. I could throw on plaids and stripes and it would be better than a Tapout t-shirt. I could wear nothing but ass-less chaps and it would be better than Tapout attire. I’d rather show the world my soft, white buttocks than project an image of profound dickbaggery.
This might not be the case everywhere, but in my town every man wears jorts, mandels, a Tapout t-shirt, and drives a pickup truck with little brass balls hanging off the back. Now you can see where my animosity for Tapout stems from. I’m sure they’re all very nice people, but if I see another Tapout shirt, pickup-truck, mandel combo I’m going to — er — do something nasty.
I don’t have the heart to rip the shirt off their back and burn it in front of them, but I do have the heart to slash their tires. That’s not a threat it’s just an observation. A threat would be that I’m going to buy Tapout t-shirts and give them to all my friends, because the NSA ranks that on the same level as a chemical-weapons attack on a major city center.