Well gang, we are only 45 Tees into Shirt of the Day and I have already received a mixed bag of comments and questions, as well as 1 marriage proposal (Suzi, "No" to the marriage, "Yes" to the tattoo) and a smattering of death threats from you, the esteemed readers. I thought I'd take this opportunity to address some of the commonly themed queries that have been posed thus far.
Q: Shawn from Ireland wanted to know "Exactly how many freakin' t-shirts do you have?!"
A: This is actually one of the most frequently asked questions. The answer: I'm not entirely sure, but enough to warrant an intervention. Probably enough to wear a different one every day for a year, and then some. Will I showcase them all? No, just the good, the bad, and the geeky. Huzzah!
Q: Saeed from the United Arab Emirates writes "أحب القمصان الخاصة بك والقصص السخيفة. أنها تبقي لي الشركة ويعطيني ابتسامات كثيرة. ليس من السهل أن يبتسم هنا. لقد حاولت من أي وقت مضى لجعل شطيرة في بولونيا كهف مظلم؟ هناك على الرمال في كل لدغة. لو كنت هنا أود أن أشكر لك من قبل قاسم ابنتي والماعز معكم لصنع الجنس."
A: First off Saeed, your grammar is atrocious (LOL-hugs), and thank you for your kind words. I can't say I do, because I don't like bologna. As for your gracious offer, tempting, but I couldn't. Now if you had said your daughter and a dugong...haha
Q: "Why?"
A: This covers a broad array of questions from all over. Why t-shirts, why stories, why bother? The answer is simple: I have a collection of tees and a catalog of tales. I like t-shirts, I have t-shirts, I also like to tell stories, I have stories to tell. A fellow t-shirt aficionado told me he reckons I'm a t-shirt wearin' front porch raconteur. Why the blog? To preserve both the shirts and the stories, before age and beer increase my girth and diminish my ability to recall and relate the yarns.
Q: Señor b00bie$ is a childhood friend who I am both embarrassed for and by, someone who has been a constant in my life and has born witness and been party to many of my youthful shenanigans. If I am Id, the Señor is my Mecha-Id. In a booze and Ativan fueled email he demanded to know "Where's all the fuckin' good stuff you hobo humpin' slobo bitch?! The sex, drugs, and rock and roll stories, dickweed!? I know you have 'em to tell, I was there! Well not for the sex stories, except that one time but we agreed to never speak of that again. But I've heard 'em, seen 'em, and unfortunately even smelled 'em...so spill it douchebag!".
A: Ah Señor b00bie$, your flattering pet names warm the cockles. Yes, I do have R and even X rated tales, but not for this forum. Some of my stories may have illicit elements, or be set against a backdrop of debauchery, but out of respect for my wife and to preserve the continuity of the lies I have told her about my puritanical past, I will leave the sordid tales of hedonistic decadence to the professionals like Tucker Max.
Q: Speaking of my enchanting bride, WaxMyMonkey69 wanted to know if "we'd be seeing any more of her".
A: Due to the graphic nature of the subsequent verbification of the email, and the accompanying photographs, I will choose the wording of my response carefully: Although my wife has begrudgingly agreed to model the occasional guest Shirt of the Day, no you will not be seeing MORE of her Mr. WaxMyMonkey69.
Q: Several readers have inquired "Did that really happen / Are these stories true?"
A: Absolutely, 100% grade a true, with a healthy dose of creative license.
Q: "Are you really that big of a geek?"
A: Whereas I do not own a clock or watch that displays all the world time zones, I do measure time in how many episodes of Buffy I could have watched. Greedo did not shoot first. I know what TARDIS stands for, but don't care what HTML means. I have no interest in Xbox, but still play Atari. I have read Lord of the Rings more than once, and comicbooks hold my interest more than the news. I have met Bruce Campbell, but not William Shatner. So you decide, but if you are already here then you may want to ask yourself the same question.
Q: "When did you first realize you were a geek?"
A: Stardate one-eight-seven-one point seven.
Until next time dear reader...Excelsior!
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