Courtesy of Miggity of The Ultimate Hatelist.
Seeing someone in a custom jersey is like seeing Paul Walker in a movie. You just think to yourself, is this guy fucking serious? It’s like putting a kick me sign on your own back. Oh, and number 69? Of course, because you partake in so many 69s with hot chicks that you just had to commemorate it with a jersey. And is that your nickname on the back, or did you just see Top Gun for the first time, start calling yourself “Ice Man” and made up this jersey in a last ditch effort to make it stick? I guess, “Fuck, who told Greg about the party?” wouldn’t fit.
The saddest part is that there’s really no excuse for this kind of lame narcissism. You can’t be like “I was black-out drunk and didn’t know what I was doing,” like you do with your Betty Boop ankle tattoo. You actually sat down and consciously filled out an order to for a number 69 Giants jersey. The other sad part is that 160 bucks and zero laughs later you continue to open your closet and select this article of clothing completely oblivious to fact that it is quite possibly the douchiest piece of apparel ever made. It is so gay and stupid companies don’t even make it. You had to solicit a company and personally request them to make something more gay than they have ever made it before to highlight your own personal areas of gayness. Money well spent.
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