I PUT MY NAME ON A SHIRT. APPARENTLY THAT MAKES ME A COCK TEASE
Well, I'll be goddamned.
I've been called a lot of things in my life.
Asshole. Smartass. Arrogant prick. Bad influence. Son of a bitch.
Hell, I've been called a few things I had to look up just to figure out whether I ought to be offended.
But somebody handed me a brand-new one the other day.
Cock tease.
Apparently, I'm a cock tease.
Now, I know what you're thinking. What the hell did Joe do this time?
Did I take my clothes off in the middle of Walmart? Did I promise somebody a night of wild passion and then leave them standing in the driveway holding a bottle of Astroglide?
Nope.
I put my name on a goddamn T-shirt.
That's it.
I was wearing a shirt that says BAD INFLUENCE with my name underneath it. Took a picture. Posted it on Facebook.
Some fella came along and informed me that I wasn't a bad influence. I was just a cock tease.
Well, shit.
I didn't realize putting your name on clothing was considered foreplay.
But apparently, I've been walking around this earth completely ignorant of one of the greatest sexual epidemics of our time.
And the more I thought about it, the worse it got.
WE'RE LIVING IN A LAND OF COCK TEASES
Let's start with Calvin Klein.
That son of a bitch has had his name wrapped around people's asses for decades.
Underwear. Jeans. Shirts. Cologne.
CALVIN KLEIN plastered across every damn thing.
And somehow I'm the cock tease?
Hell, Calvin's been teasing cocks on an international scale since before some of you were born.
He's got billboards.
I've got a Facebook page.
We're not even operating in the same league.
And what about Ralph Lauren?
That bastard puts a little man riding a horse on your chest. What's that supposed to mean? You gonna ride me, Ralph? Is that the message?
Tommy Hilfiger?
Another cock tease.
Michael Kors?
Cock tease with a handbag.
We're surrounded by these people, and nobody's doing a damn thing about it.
But it gets worse.
Nabisco.
Think about that for a minute.
Every time that company puts its name on a box of crackers, it's apparently teasing somebody's cock.
You can't even walk down the snack aisle anymore without being sexually propositioned by a sleeve of Ritz.
OREO?
Don't even get me started.
Two chocolate cookies with a creamy filling?
Jesus Christ, Nabisco. Have a little decency.
And Little Debbie?
That hussy's been flashing her name all over snack cakes for generations.
I don't know what kind of establishment she's running over there, but apparently I've been participating since I was about six years old.
We've got an entire grocery store full of cock teases.
The cereal aisle alone ought to require identification.
NOBODY IS SAFE
Football players have their names on the backs of their jerseys.
Cock teases.
Every last one of them.
You've got 300-pound linemen running around with their names stretched across their shoulders, just shamelessly advertising themselves in front of millions of people.
And nobody bats an eye.
Doctors put their names on their white coats.
Well, hell, Doc. I thought I was here to get my blood pressure checked. Didn't realize we were getting acquainted.
Lawyers put their names on billboards.
CALL JOHNSON & JOHNSON.
For what, exactly? A consultation or a three-way?
I've got my name on my mailbox.
Can't imagine what the mailman must think of me.
Poor bastard's been delivering my mail for years, and here I am standing at the end of the driveway with my name proudly displayed like some kind of roadside invitation.
Probably goes home every evening and tells his wife, "That Durst fella's at it again."
I've signed my name on checks.
I've signed my name on contracts.
Hell, I've signed birthday cards.
Apparently, I've been leading people on since I learned cursive.
And what about tombstones?
A man works his whole life, finally drops dead, and his family puts his name on a big rock.
COCK TEASE.
The poor son of a bitch can't even rest in peace without somebody accusing him of sending mixed signals.
I'm starting to think we ought to remove everybody's name from everything.
No more name tags.
No more business cards.
No more personalized license plates.
And for God's sake, somebody get those names off the back of bowling shirts before things get completely out of hand.
ALL THIS OVER A DAMN SHIRT
Now, here's the part that makes this whole thing especially funny to me.
I wasn't even trying to be sexy.
I was selling a shirt.
A goddamn T-shirt.
You know, the kind of thing people put on so they don't have to walk around with their nipples hanging out.
I put my name on it because it's my merchandise.
That's generally how branding works.
Ford puts its name on trucks.
Chevrolet puts its name on trucks.
John Deere puts its name on tractors.
Although now that I think about it, John Deere might be the biggest cock tease of them all.
That bastard's been promising people a good ride for generations.
And have you seen what those tractors cost?
At those prices, there damn well better be some romance involved.
But seriously, I have to wonder what goes through somebody's head when they see a grown man wearing a shirt with his own name on it and somehow conclude they're being sexually deprived.
Did I miss a meeting?
Was there some kind of announcement that men who sell clothing are now required to provide additional services?
Because if that's the case, I need to update my return policy.
And possibly hire an attorney.
APPARENTLY I NEED A DISCLAIMER
I'm starting to think I ought to include a warning label with every shirt.
Something like:
WARNING: THIS GARMENT CONTAINS THE NAME JOE DURST.
Wearing or viewing this product does not constitute a promise of sexual activity, romantic involvement, personal attention, or access to the individual whose name appears on the fabric.
Side effects may include disappointment, confusion, inappropriate expectations, and the sudden urge to leave stupid comments on Facebook.
If symptoms persist, please consult a grown-ass adult.
There.
That ought to cover it.
Although knowing my luck, somebody would read the warning label and accuse me of teasing them with the fine print.
Can't win for losing.
I WROTE A WHOLE DAMN CHAPTER ABOUT PEOPLE LIKE THIS
The funny thing is, this whole business reminded me of something I wrote in my book LIVE LIKE A MAN.
There's a chapter called "You Asked Me a Damn Question."
It's about people who ask questions, hear answers they don't like, and then get all bent out of shape because somebody didn't tell them what they wanted to hear.
I've encountered plenty of those people over the years.
Somebody asks my opinion.
I give it to them.
Then they act like I've personally ruined their afternoon.
Well, hell, you asked.
I didn't come knocking on your door at seven in the morning with a clipboard and a list of unsolicited opinions.
Same thing with this shirt business.
I put a picture on Facebook.
Somebody decided it meant something entirely different.
And somehow I'm supposed to explain myself.
I can't even imagine what would happen if I posted a picture wearing a pair of Calvin Klein underwear.
The internet would probably have to shut down for maintenance.
Anyway, if you enjoy this kind of foolishness, you'll probably enjoy LIVE LIKE A MAN. There's plenty more where this came from, along with some things I take a little more seriously.
You can find it over at www.joedurst.com.
And no, buying the book doesn't mean we're dating either.
Figured I'd better clear that up.
BUY THE DAMN SHIRT. JUST DON'T GET ANY IDEAS.
Now, about that BAD INFLUENCE shirt.
It's still for sale.
I'm not pulling it off the market just because somebody apparently mistook a clothing advertisement for a personal invitation.
You can find it in my General Store at www.joedurst.com.
Buy one for yourself.
Buy one for your husband.
Buy one for that loudmouth friend who can't go to the grocery store without embarrassing everybody.
Hell, buy one for your mailman.
Lord knows mine's probably been wondering what the hell I'm trying to tell him all these years.
But understand something before you order.
You're buying a shirt.
Not a date.
Not a relationship.
Not a private audience with my pecker.
A shirt.
Cotton. Sleeves. A hole for your head.
That's the whole damn deal.
And if you happen to look good wearing it, congratulations.
Just don't go around telling people I led you on.
GOD HELP US ALL
I don't know what the world is coming to.
Used to be a man could put his name on something without causing a sexual incident.
Now we've got Calvin Klein running around teasing the entire country, Nabisco seducing people in the snack aisle, John Deere making promises it can't possibly keep, and poor Little Debbie out there peddling her cakes to anybody with three dollars and a sweet tooth.
And somewhere in the middle of all this moral collapse is me.
Joe Durst.
A grown-ass man trying to sell a goddamn T-shirt.
I suppose I ought to be ashamed of myself.
But I ain't.
In fact, I'm thinking about putting my name on a hat next.
Maybe even a coffee mug.
Hell, I might really push the envelope and order some personalized stationery.
At this rate, I'll have half the country pregnant by Christmas.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go get the mail.
And I think I'll wear a plain shirt today.
That poor mailman has suffered enough.
Joe Durst
FROM THE DURST GENERAL STORE
THE SHIRT THAT STARTED ALL THIS BULLSHIT.
The BAD INFLUENCE shirt. Got my name on it and everything. Apparently that makes it dangerous.
Buy the damn shirt if you like it. Just don't expect me to put out.
FROM DURST PUBLISHING
I WROTE A WHOLE DAMN CHAPTER ABOUT IT.
In LIVE LIKE A MAN, I've got a chapter called "You Asked Me a Damn Question." It's about what happens when people ask for an answer and don't like the one they get.
There's a lot more in the book about life, responsibility, raising my boy, and trying not to be a complete asshole. No promises on that last one.
Comments ()