Let's be honest... You are not an MMA fighter, you do not listen to Pantera, you do not ride a motorcycle, nor have you ever enlisted in the SS. Why, then, do you insist on dressing in that manner?
Those overpriced articles of clothing do not instantaneously and continuously announce to others nearby that one's testosterone levels have reached near-Himalayan peaks. Yes, the rest of society was equally as shocked the first time they heard that fact back in 2003. One would think that a shirt would convey as much attitude as the "hardcore" imagery of skulls, demons, and tigers wish to portray but actually it works against itself as those subject to being within its proximity are fully aware that the cloth is not hiding the ink of many tattoos nor the muscle capable of transforming bone to dust.
Sirs, your clothes betray you. Any woman worth her salt sees straight through the facade and acknowledges you for who you really are: a weekend warrior who plays by his own rules at the stroke of five o'clock because nothing can contain him, his intravenously-induced energy drinks, and the urge to drunkenly exclaim "TAPOUT!" after a third Dos Equis. Within those set of rules that you hold so dearly, the first of which is that there are no rules, there cannot afford to be a gap in masculinity at any level regardless of how hard you cried in the darkness of your condo living room at the conclusion of Lifetime's Movie-of-the-Week that you "accidentally" TiVo'd. Sadly, those rhinestones, too, which are cleverly adorned to sparkle attraction your way do not appeal to a woman's fascination with shiny objects, rather, the glittering rocks evoke a response similar to that of seeing fresh sawdust piled up in a high school hallway after a lunchtime milk chugging contest.
Your male friends, or "bros," who claim to have your back are often of little assistance in this type of crisis; they went with you to the opening of the latest Michael Bay feature, helped you sneak back into Papas and Beer last spring break after getting thrown out based on a 20 year-old coed's accusation of being approached by a "creepy old guy," and even held your hand when you sat in the chair at Supercuts to get the mohawk you've always wanted to show your manager at Best Buy that simply because you're an assistant manager does not put you under his control. Therefore, your pals either are joining you as brothers of the tasteless cloth or long ago accepted you as the "mainstream but edgy" garden-variety tool into which you blossomed, neither of which aid you against your self-inflicted onslaught.
While the term "douchebag" may be heard when you enter a room so much so that you habitually glance down at your chest to check for a name tag, do not fret as salvation can be both quick and painless. All it requires is the purchasing and wearing of plain t-shirts which come conveniently in packs of three for under $10. Fucking buy some already, you look retarded.
