Adrift in the non-Euclidean void of the Otherverse, Steve heard a reassuring, familiar chiming sound…

There it was, rolling down a road which looked like it bulged in the middle but whose sides were totally parallel. An ice cream truck. As it drew nearer, the truck’s bells rang with modal contra-harmonics that Steve thought he could actually see.

“Wait! Wait! Stop!” The truck slowed to a halt and Steve ran to the window on its side.

The driver’s face looked convex at first, but then the light shifted and it looked concave. “What can I get you?”

“I need to get home. Please, help me get home.”

The man smiled – or frowned? “Home is a place for coming from, not going to.”

Steve had the distinct impression that if he could turn the man’s face upside down, his eyebrows would look like a mouth and his chin would look like some sort of fez. But he couldn’t worry about that now. “Please, I don’t know where I am, and I don’t understand this place, and I just want to get back. Can you help me? Please?”

“No,” the man said. “But I’ll give you a free bomb pop for your trouble.”

Wear this shirt: on both of your torsos and all three of your arms.

Don’t wear this shirt: when the real ice-cream truck comes through. Ray Ray, that guy who drives it, has been having a little trouble with reality since he quit rehab. You don’t want to set him off.

This shirt tells the world: “If life is a double popsicle, why do I have three sticks?”

We call this color: Optical Ibluesion.

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