I love this shirt, its my favorite of all time. It helped me mitigate emf exposure and blue light exposure. I started eating raw honey. I met up with Mr. Hunter and I couldn’t stop posting videos to the love for you audio. Much love my lord, Cookie.
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I don’t know what unholy fever dream birthed this monstrosity, but the moment I laid eyes on this shirt, my soul screamed. My eyes—innocent, trusting—were assaulted by a black cotton atrocity, proudly displaying a photo that should have never been uploaded, let alone plastered on fabric and marketed as wearable art. To call it “fashion” is an insult to every grandmother knitting sweaters and every toddler finger-painting on onesies. This shirt is not just a failure of taste—it’s a failure of civilization.
First off, let’s talk about the design—if we can even call it that. It's not a shirt; it’s a war crime committed in pixels and thread. A plain, black tee with a random fat fuck slapped right onto it, centered like a cursed meme from the depths of someone’s camera roll. There is no irony. No style. No message. It's just a man in a poorly lit room, in a stretched-out purple shirt and gym shorts, mid-pose like he just got caught off-guard on Zoom. Who approved this?! Who looked at this and said, “Yeah, this is what the people want to wear on their chest—let’s ruin some fabric today”?
And then there's the image quality. Blurry. Uneven lighting. A background that screams “I didn’t clean before taking this.” This is not high fashion. This is not low fashion. This isn’t any fashion. This is the equivalent of dragging a JPEG through the mud, printing it with a potato, and calling it avant-garde. The only thing this shirt should clothe is the inside of a garbage can, where it belongs.
But what truly pushes me to the edge is the audacity behind it. The gall to sell this. The nerve to charge actual human currency in exchange for what is essentially a fabric mugshot. It’s not even "so bad it’s good." It’s just... bad. Not a meme. Not a joke. Just a black void of style and purpose, wrapped around your torso like a wearable embarrassment. Imagine going on a date in this shirt. Imagine showing up to an event wearing this. You’d be asked to leave. No—you should be asked to leave.
And what does it say about us—about our society—that this was allowed to exist? This isn’t just a shirt. This is a symptom. A sign that we’ve given up. That we’ve collectively stopped trying. That we’ve looked at taste, dignity, and aesthetic coherence and said, “Nah, let’s print random home photos on shirts and sell them ironically.” It’s apathy in textile form.
Let me be crystal clear: this shirt is not “quirky.” It’s not “unique.” It’s not “underground art.” It is visual pollution. It is a fabric-based failure. It’s the sartorial equivalent of a flat soda: disappointing, stale, and vaguely sad.
If I had one wish, it would be to track down every copy of this shirt, bury them in a pit, and salt the earth above it. Not out of hatred for the person in the image—no, they’re probably just a victim of poor fashion decisions. I feel for them. But the shirt? The shirt must be stopped. stupid fucking nigger ass shirt
Beautiful shirt, amazing quality
Fat Cookie | Tee