My Shirt Is Not Offensive, Right?

Summer of Love.  Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?  Yes, yes it does.  I’m Karl’s last guest poster for his summer lovin’ thing and I’d like to think he saved the best for last.  However, that $100 bill he asked me for to save this spot, is sort of a dead give away that it may not be the case at all.  Jerk.  Love ya, though.

Let me properly introduce myself since I’m all about the proper and stuff.  I’m Sassy Smith, and surprisingly (or not) that is not my real name.  Yes, a lot of people do call me Sassy and I, of course, will answer to it (I’ll answer to almost anything except Edna.  That’s just not a pretty name.  No offense to anyone actually named Edna) and it matches my personality.  Serious and conservative *cough*.  If you follow me on Twitter (and if you don’t, what the hell are you waiting for?  This could be YOUR lucky day), you’ll see just how proper, conservative and serious I truly am. Flirt with a big F.  Anyway, when I joined teh internetz back in 2002, I was told by my paranoid mother to never use your real name online, because?  there are weirdos out there.  Which, yes, true, but Karl is totally harmless.

Let me tell you a little story.  No, it won’t be about that time in the hotel room playing naked poker with one of my best girlfriends (Karl asked me to send the draft to him first, you know, so he could check it out and point out my spelling errors), and maybe I’ll be asked to never come back and guest post again, and I’ll enthrall you with that little bit of porn gem or not.

This is about shirts.  Offensive shirts.  Allegedly offensive.  Are they really offensive?  I mean, what if you don’t know the whole story behind the shirt?  Right?  Remember Karl’s Blogher tees?  A handful of people didn’t like them (bitch please, you had better send me that pink one!  You hear me Karl?!).  I’ve experienced similar discrimination.  And from men, too!  Usually I don’t offend men, but this one dude walked up to me and said my shirt was disgusting and that I was a dirty girl (so disgusting in fact, he licked his lips as he said it).  And he did give me his home number, his cell number, his pager number, his email address and keys to his apartment.  Maybe when he said disgusting and dirty girl, he meant something else?  Whatevs.

So, tell me what you think?  I mean, these shirts are cute, right?  And they are super high-quality.  Had them specially made as you can totally tell hand printed with grape-scented kid markers.  Nothin’ but the best for my chest.

“My pussy is awesome!”

Sure, I can sort of see how it might be offensive, but seriously, my pussy is awesome.  It’s just that I can’t take her every place I go.  She sheds.

See?  She’s adorable, right?!  Told you!  My pussy is totally awesome.  So, to that dude who said I was dirty and disgusting, I’m totally returning your apartment keys after I sleep with you just once.  I mean you were totally hot.

“I have a dirty box.”

Seriously, it’s not been cleaned, in like, days.  I get how some might react badly to that shirt caption – it’s not like I take my dirty box with me wherever I go, so people understand what I mean.  So they can see my dirty box.  It’s dirty.  Like, for real, who wants to cart around a dirty box?  Not me!

See?  Dirty box.  To the lady at the grocery store, you know what?  Fuck you.  I didn’t judge you on your poor fashion choice of leggings, crop top and $3 bargin-bin flip-flops.  I applaud you on your courage to show the world your back fat and ugly feet.  You could have shown me the same courtesy instead of huffing away in a jiggly mass after reading my shirt.  Don’t judge my fucking dirty box or my dirty box shirt.

“I heart big breasts.”

Who doesn’t love big ones?  Big, juicy breasts.  Smeared with sauce.  Yum.

I mean look at those big breasts!  When they thaw and get tossed on the BBQ and smeared with sauce…yum, gonna be so juicy.  See?  How is that offensive?  Sheesh.

Hey, grandma at the doctor’s office, loosen up, will ya?  There was no need to point your cane at me and cluck your tongue in disgust.  I’m sure back in the day you liked big juicy breasts but were afraid to admit it.  You’re 92.  Time to live a little.  Nothing wrong with BIG, JUICY BREASTS.  I think the crowd agrees with me, right?  Stand up and cheer!

“My milk jugs R full.”

Love me some full milk jugs.  All filled up.  Best way to enjoy milk jugs.  Full.  I like the milk in bags, too.  Fun bags, I call them.  Milky fun bags.  Ooh.

Look at those jugs.  Full.  Milky.  Dreamy.

Sure, it may not have been THE best shirt to wear to church, but my friend didn’t give me much time to prepare.  She was all, let’s go to church and confess and shit and I just grabbed the closest thing to me.  The nuns, I’m pretty sure, were not pleased with my tank top, but the priest?  I think he sort of dug me.  I asked him after the service if he like full milk jugs and he nodded his agreement.  He was kind of tongue-tied.  Not sure why?  Hi, is that your robe or are you just glad to see me?  The nuns didn’t like my joking nature.  I’m probably going to hell anyway, so no big.

I like my shirts.  I think they’re cute (and remember, super high quality).  But…

…after much consideration, I think I might give up the shirts.  And not just my specially hand-crafted tees, but all shirts.  I mean people are so damn judgy.  Say the hell with shirts!  Take them off!  Be free of the shirts and the judgment!

So…

…hopefully, my bikini top doesn’t offend you.  Because?  Next step would be to go around topless and I know that shit would really offend people.

Don’t judge me.  Or my shirts.  Or me taking off my shirt.  Let’s all love one another like in a big orgy. I mean, group hug.  Yeah, group hug.

Karl, thank you so much for letting me guest post.  You’re calling security, right?  Now, give me back my hundred bucks.