The lives of my t-shirts are usually pretty strenuous and uncomfortable. In fact, I would have to say that there is an audible sigh of relief from t-shirts that I don't buy, and shrieks of anguish from the t-shirts that I do end up purchasing. I don't speak the secret language of t-shirts, or anything...but I can imagine their screams, all the same.
When you have the honor of being one of my t-shirts, your day begins as a wad of clothing on the floor at the foot of my bed. You may be clean, but you're most likely classified as "mostly not dirty." You are then picked up at random, sniffed thoroughly, and then picked as my very special t-shirt-of-the-day.
The first torture you endure when you are chosen is that you are pulled halfway over my head and then stretched out with my elbows before you're allowed to be pulled down over my torso. There is a simple reason for this practice: I am terribly fat and I need my t-shirts stretched out. Don't judge me.
Once you're completely stretched out of shape, you are then smoothed over with my hands...as if that ever has worked to get wrinkled out of t-shirts. You then get to enjoy breakfast with me, as it is almost certain that you will have part of it dropped down onto you. You'll be marked with a dark grease spot for the rest of the day, and I really won't care that much at all.
T-shirts are always going to serve one major use, and that is to hide my body from the ever-lustful eyes of chubby-chasers everywhere. A secondary, less-known role you may serve as my t-shirt is one of sanitation. This is a super-important aspect of your existence as my shirt, because I REALLY hate getting stuff on my hands. It would be a waste of your absorbency not to wipe my hands off on you.
Depending on the severity of your appearance, you may end up going back into the "clean" clothes mound at the bottom of my bed. It is entirely possible that you did not suffer too many noticeable stains and can be worn again the next day. If this is so, then you are one of the lucky t-shirts. The unlucky t-shirts must go...to the wash.
While being worn all day by a fat guy and getting food dropped all over you may sound pretty bad, it is nothing compared with the terrible pain t-shirts must feel when they are put through a washing cycle at my house. Most people wash their cotton tees on a gentle, cold-water cycle. Cold water doesn't get fried chicken stains out of a t-shirt, so I need to wash my clothes in the extra-hot doom cycle.
Being one of my t-shirts is terrible. You are mistreated, abused, neglected, and taken for granted every day. Perhaps one day, there is a t-shirt heaven waiting for you. Right now, though, you must go through hell...and that hell exists on the back of a sweating, sloppy, fat man.
When you have the honor of being one of my t-shirts, your day begins as a wad of clothing on the floor at the foot of my bed. You may be clean, but you're most likely classified as "mostly not dirty." You are then picked up at random, sniffed thoroughly, and then picked as my very special t-shirt-of-the-day.
The first torture you endure when you are chosen is that you are pulled halfway over my head and then stretched out with my elbows before you're allowed to be pulled down over my torso. There is a simple reason for this practice: I am terribly fat and I need my t-shirts stretched out. Don't judge me.
Once you're completely stretched out of shape, you are then smoothed over with my hands...as if that ever has worked to get wrinkled out of t-shirts. You then get to enjoy breakfast with me, as it is almost certain that you will have part of it dropped down onto you. You'll be marked with a dark grease spot for the rest of the day, and I really won't care that much at all.
T-shirts are always going to serve one major use, and that is to hide my body from the ever-lustful eyes of chubby-chasers everywhere. A secondary, less-known role you may serve as my t-shirt is one of sanitation. This is a super-important aspect of your existence as my shirt, because I REALLY hate getting stuff on my hands. It would be a waste of your absorbency not to wipe my hands off on you.
Depending on the severity of your appearance, you may end up going back into the "clean" clothes mound at the bottom of my bed. It is entirely possible that you did not suffer too many noticeable stains and can be worn again the next day. If this is so, then you are one of the lucky t-shirts. The unlucky t-shirts must go...to the wash.
While being worn all day by a fat guy and getting food dropped all over you may sound pretty bad, it is nothing compared with the terrible pain t-shirts must feel when they are put through a washing cycle at my house. Most people wash their cotton tees on a gentle, cold-water cycle. Cold water doesn't get fried chicken stains out of a t-shirt, so I need to wash my clothes in the extra-hot doom cycle.
Being one of my t-shirts is terrible. You are mistreated, abused, neglected, and taken for granted every day. Perhaps one day, there is a t-shirt heaven waiting for you. Right now, though, you must go through hell...and that hell exists on the back of a sweating, sloppy, fat man.
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To quench your thirst about awesome tees there is a Website at popular shirts where the process is described in detail.
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