As we were leaving the restaurant (T.G.I.Friday’s) a couple was walking out of the bar at the same time.
They looked to be in their 30s, but I couldn’t be sure because what caught my eye was the man’s t-shirt.
In big bold letters it read:
“F*** the crackers, Polly wanna tattoo.”
Only the big word wasn’t censored. It was right there in big block letters in all of its explosive consonant glory.
Look, I’m no prude. I know the word. It neither shocks nor offends me. You can’t work in politics very long if it does. And, truth be told, in almost 52 years, it’s probably exploded across my lips a time or two.
But what kind of degenerate wears it on a shirt? In public?
What misfiring brain synapses makes someone look in the mirror and say “this is the fashion statement I want to make?”
And why are the fashion police never around when you really need them?