I’m not asking. I’m manifesting. I say “Mommy?” to strangers, baristas, Uber drivers, cops, museum statues, taxidermied raccoons. I say it with eye contact and unearned confidence. I say it after choking on a vape and mid-way through being kicked out of a Panera Bread. This shirt is not a joke—it’s a cry for help with a boner. I don’t want nurturing, I want ruin. I want to be bottle-fed Red Bull while someone twice my age tells me I’m a bad little disappointment. I don’t need a mom—I need a threat with soft hands and sharp nails. I am not well. I say “Mommy?” the way other people say “thank you.” I say it after sex, before sex, instead of sex. You read this shirt and you’re already compromised. Now get in the van, Mommy’s driving.
Disclaimer:
By purchasing or using any product from Super Silly Company, you acknowledge that we are purveyors of absurd novelties, not your legal counsel, financial advisor, or that one cousin who claims to "know a guy." Super Silly Company, its employees, and the office gremlin who keeps stealing our pens shall not be held liable for any consequences arising from your use of our products, including but not limited to: sparking government surveillance, igniting barstool arguments, or causing your grandma to choke on her dentures. Our goods are designed for shits and giggles, not courtroom dramas, so don’t come knocking if your purchase lands you in hot water or a viral shitstorm. Proceed at your own risk, you delightfully unhinged customer.
