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The worst hat, shirt in the world

These are objective truths.

I sailed a wild, wild sea and climbed up a tall, tall mountain. I met a old, old man beneath a weeping willow tree. He said, "Now, if you have some questions, go and lay them at my feet. But my time here is brief, so you'll have to pick just three."

And I said, "What is the worst baseball hat in the world?"

He thought for a while, and then said


I couldn't speak for hours, staring at the ghoulish, militarized caricature in front the hideous mesh. My heart shattered. There was nothing left.

After mustering enough strength, I asked the second question.

"What is the worst shirt in all of existence?"

He stared at me blankly, and then he said


He held me as I sobbed, but there was no comfort in his arms. He was not looking to soothe me or ease my burden; he was a dispassionate feature of the landscape, as sympathetic or unfeeling as the willow tree. But I stayed there for days, distraught and doomed, wondering how it all ended like this, and wondering why I still cared.

Finally, I choked out my third question.


Without looking down, he said calmly, "These exist as a warning. Much as the rattlesnake whispers before he strikes, these things exist to let you know that you never, ever, ever, ever need to talk to the person wearing them."

Rain started falling.

I stood up and walked down the mountain.