There are five taverns to frequent within walking distance of my house.

Today after work I chose the closest one. You know the place; the one just around the corner with the desperate cougar barwench and the HepC outpatients coughing on their Reserve smokes and constantly opening their antique cellphones, desperate for human contact.

Nonetheless there was hockey on tv, which distracted me well enough until I saw it. Staring at me from behind.

A button-down denim shirt with its back emplazened with iron-on Ford trucks and faux-chrome scripted lettering. I tried to focus my eyes on the game, but this emaciated guy's shirt really wanted its presence to be acknowledged.

If I ever wear a shirt like that please shoot me. Right through the fucking head...