I never listened to most of my Mama’s advice. Like, what do I care if the people at the morgue see that I’m wearing dirty underwear?

But there’s one rule she laid down that I’ll never break: don’t party with girls wearing creepy masks. Doesn’t matter how fine the freak is. It doesn’t matter if she’s hot enough to set skeletons on fire. Stay the hell away – or you’ll be lucky if all you get is a burning sensation down below.

Oh, one more thing Mama said: don’t ever let yourself be a character in a Poe story. That’s no kinda way to live.

Wear this shirt: to those illicit masquerades at the big estate just outside town, where notable local libertines cavort in shadowed rooms, indulging in unspeakable delights of the flesh. Or to your scrapbooking group.

Don’t wear this shirt: if you pronounce the word “masque” like “mask-wuh” or “mass-cue”. Caveat: you may still wear it if you’re mispronouncing intentionally for humorous effect.

This shirt tells the world: “Am I a metaphor for syphilis, or am I just glad to see you?”

We call this color: In The Navy, Yes, You Can Catch Some Strange Disease.

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