Category: Fame
“People who speak in absolutes absolutely bug me.”
- Me
I don’t take kindly to extremists. Especially those with a public platform. Such public speakers strive to polarize their listeners with provoking rhetoric. This can be dangerous in the minds of those who are easily influenced and in a position to inflict harm on others.
An extremist is a person who holds an extreme opinion to the point of disregarding facts that may refute the opinion or support a counter argument. The extremist will never admit this, of course. In that person’s mind, counter-arguments carry no weight and should be dismissed, no matter the strengths of the facts. Extremists may further harbor the paranoia that an opposing group released such facts as part of a conspiracy against the extremist’s point of view.
A person with a strong opinion differs from an extremist in the severity of the belief and the actions the extreme opinion propels. Strong opinions can ultimately be changed if there is enough supporting evidence to the contrary. Extreme opinions, by this definition, cannot, and may even be strengthened with fanatical zeal.
Many will argue with me about the danger of extremists. “What’s wrong with passionate devotion to a particular opinion,” they ask. “Without such passion, some of the world’s greatest art would not exist.” Neither would war, for that matter.
A stronger counter-argument is: “Humans are hard-wired for extreme opinions. It is in our nature.” That I cannot deny. It doesn’t change my opinion of extremists, but I realize it is futile to do much more than rant on my lowly website about them. And to avoid them, as I tend to do.
Another good counter-argument: “Isn’t this an extreme opinion against extremists?” Heh, funny. This opinion is not an extreme one. I don’t take kindly to extremists, but I do realize their contributions to society. Art is definitely one. Books, music, movies; some of the most moving creative works are born of intense passion.
The extremists I don’t like are those with a public platform and the desire to use their influence to inflict harm on others. History is littered with such examples. Adolf Hitler and Osama bin Laden are two infamous examples in the Western world. And unfortunately, I’m sure there will be many more in the future.
There are also many less heinous examples. Broadcast and cable television have given many the ability to reach millions in their own homes. The Internet has exponentially expanded that reach, though extremists on television still seem to have more influence than those on the Internet, for whatever reason. That will most certainly change in the future.
Bill O’Reilly is an easy example, though he would argue that he is not an extremist (or extreme conservative) and prefers to be labeled a “traditionalist.” He does have a public platform however: the O’Reilly Factor.
For better or worse, he is media savvy enough to know how to exploit this medium. The economics of television programs means those with the highest ratings stay on the air. In order to continue the survival of his show, he has to maintain high ratings. One of the most effective ways to do this is through sensationalism. And what is more sensational than a pundit shouting his polarizing views with fanatical zeal?
A show that carefully weighed both sides of an issue would not score high ratings, sadly. Most political issues are so complex that it would take hours to explain them all. No major media conglomerate would risk the loss of advertising revenue from such programming. (Thank goodness for NPR and PBS. Too bad more people don’t listen & watch them.)
Therefore, short sound bites about a particular political topic coupled with polarizing rhetoric is the best way to incite an audience and encourage them to tune in again and again. The end goal isn’t to disseminate the facts effectively; it is to cultivate a viewing audience.
Therein lies the danger of extremists. An extremist in isolation is not going to cause any harm, but an extremist with the ability to spread that opinion to millions could.
Let’s return to Bill O’Reilly again. In 2005, O’Reilly publicly denounced Dr. George Tiller on his television show. Dr. Tiller is a physician known for performing second and third trimester abortions. O’Reilly referenced the doctor as “Tiller the baby killer” multiple times across multiple shows. There is anecdotal evidence that this rhetoric may have influenced Dr. Tiller’s murder at the hands of Scott Roeder.
It isn’t fair to say O’Reilly directly led to Dr. Tiller’s death. The correlation is weak at best. But just as conservatives argue that heavy metal music and video game violence leads to violent behavior amongst teens, many have drawn a connection between O’Reilly’s words and Roeder’s actions.
Roeder has a history of mental illness. At 20, he was diagnosed with possible schizophrenia. His ex-wife believed he was suffering from bipolar disorder. He has also been involved with extremist organizations such as the Sovereign Citizen Movement (an anti-government organization) and the Army of God (an anti-abortion organization that believes murdering doctors that perform abortions is justifiable homicide).
It is fair to say that Roeder has a predisposition for violence in line with his extreme views. It is also fair to say that David Leach, another Army of God member and publisher of the anti-abortion newsletter Prayer & Action News (another example of an extremist with a public platform) had more influence on Roeder’s state of mind than O’Reilly did. But unfortunately for O’Reilly, he is more famous than Leach and therefore more influential on the nation as a whole. This is why he caught a lot of criticism for his statements, especially calling the doctor “Tiller the baby killer.”
In my opinion, no, O’Reilly did not directly contribute to Roeder’s murderous actions. But his influential voice did amplify Tiller’s demonization. Even journalist Gabriel Winant asserted that O’Reilly’s anti-Tiller tirades contributed to an atmosphere of violence around the doctor.
The influence of public extremists is strong, much stronger than many realize. With more and more Americans turning to commercials (yes, it’s true) and television shows for their political education, programs like The O’Reilly Factor and The Daily Show (I’m not biased here, even Jon Stewart holds tremendous and potentially dangerous sway) are becoming mouthpieces for political parties, whether they like it or not.
Since both sides resort to short, catchy sound bites instead of verbose, drawn-out arguments, the viewing public is in danger of falling sway to extremists with public platforms — especially those who are easily influenced and in a position to inflict harm on others.
Hi, I’m Mike Lee. No, not that Mike Lee. He’s someone else. No, not that one either. Me, Mike Lee, from New York, now in California.
Oh, you know a Mike Lee too? Nice. I know a bunch too. There are four at my company. And there were at least twelve at a previous company. Us Mike Lee’s are everywhere.
What? No, I’m not a professional bull rider. I know, I know. There’s a professional bull rider named Mike Lee. He’s from Texas.
No, I’m not a country singer either. That’s another Mike Lee. From Nashville, I think. Those two guys are Caucasian. I’m not. I’m an Asian American.
Yea, I know there used to be a Mike Lee in Wikipedia. He was a judge or lawyer or something. The entry’s gone now. Maybe it’s back now though. You never know with Wikipedia.
Oh yea, there are a bunch of web designers and developers named Mike Lee. I’ve seen their sites. I probably fought with them to get this domain name too.
My first attempt was MichaelLee.com. But that was taken by a painter. From Illinois, I believe. There’s an odd message from a Lana on his site right now. I wonder what that’s about.
Then I tried MikeLee.com. But that one was taken too. I don’t think it is anymore though; looks like someone’s squatting on that domain name right now.
There’s a Mike Lee saxophonist too? Really? Huh. I didn’t know about that one. He’s from New York too, I see. Brooklyn, to be exact. Or Crooklyn, as my friends call it. Heh.
Ah yes, the Mike Lee from London. He’s an ABC News correspondent. I saw a news story by him once. Kind of weirded me out.
I’m not surprised there’s a real estate agent named Mike Lee too. I’ll bet there are lots of them. All over the country. Trying to help you buy a house.
You know, I’ve seen the Mike Lee on IMDB too. In fact, there are a ton of them. Just do a search. Lots, huh? There are Mike Lee actors, stunt men, camera men, editors, and more.
Funny thing is, most of them are all Caucasian too. Most of the Asian American Mike Lee’s I know are designers or developers. Oh, I’m sure they’re in other fields too; I just know a lot in design and development because I’ve seen their web sites.
Now if you look for Michael Lee, you’ll see a whole new cast. There’s a character named Michael Lee in the HBO show The Wire. He’s African American. Did you know that?
And there’s an anime character named Michael Lee too. From the show Witch Hunter Robin. This Michael Lee is a 16 year old Caucasian computer expert.
There also was once an African American basketball player for the Kansas Jayhawks named Michael Lee. He played guard. Not sure if he’s still playing now though.
If you look up Michael Lee in Wikipedia, you’ll see many more entries. Like the one for Michael Lee, the Australian Labor Party politician. Or Michael Lee, the field hockey player for the Canadian team Victoria Selects. Or Michael Lee, the former keyboardist & composer for Meredith Brooks, Melissa Etheridge, and David Foster. Or Michael Lee, the former drummer for Led Zeppelin’s Robert Plant and Jimmy Page.
Now try Michael Lee on IMDB. Woo wee there’s a lot, huh? Producers, cinematographers, production designers. Hollywood is full of Michael Lees.
As you can see, we’re everywhere. Us Mike and Michael Lees. And one day, we’ll take over the world and rename it “The Earth of Mike & Michael Lees”. Or maybe just “ML” for short.
If you’d like to be excused from enslavement and serve as one of our personal servants, let me know. Otherwise, bow to the will of a million Mike Lees!
I don’t win many awards. Hardly any, in fact. So it was a big surprise when I won the Program Guide Cover Contest for DECA’s NY Conference in high school for a second year in a row.
The main speaker was pretty surprised too, apparently. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
DECA is, according to their website: “an international association of high school and college students studying marketing, management and entrepreneurship in business, finance, hospitality and marketing sales and service.”
My high school had a chapter and one of my teachers encouraged me to join. It was her who suggested I enter the Program Guide Cover Contest as well.
The first year, I drew the NY state flag. It was pretty awesome, if I say so myself.
At the conference, the speaker brought me onto the stage and presented me with a $100 check. For a high school student, that’s a lot of money. I brought a ton of comic books and candy with that money.
Our high school also won another award that year. So that, plus my Cover Contest award, meant we had one kick-ass high school. Our school was mighty proud.
The next year, I won again with a drawing of the Statue of Liberty. Another awesome drawing, I humbly admit.
The speaker rattled off the winners of the various contests. When he got to the Program Guide Cover Contest, my classmates howled before he even said my name. They continued to cheer as I walked onto the stage.
Then I noticed something wrong.
The speaker wasn’t looking at me. His arm wasn’t extended like it was last year. I didn’t see a check in his hand. But I know he announced my name; my whole table heard him.
I walked over to him anyways, thinking perhaps the check was in his pocket or something.
The room fell silent. The speaker stood there for a few moments, eyes glazed. He silently shook my hand. I said, “Thank you,” though I’m not sure why. Then I retreated off the stage.
Back at my table, my classmates were still howling. Only this time, they weren’t cheering, they were laughing.
I think it was Dave who was the first to say, “Mike, I don’t think you were supposed to go up there this year!”
They realized this when I was halfway to the stage. The speaker continued rattling off contest winners without pause. My classmates shouted at me to return, but by that time, I was on autopilot.
When I got on the stage, the speaker had no clue who I was. I’m surprised he even shook my hand. I wonder what he was thinking when this random Chinese kid walked onto the stage with him and shook his hand.
And after that, I never entered any more DECA Program Guide Cover Contests.
. . .
Have you ever won any awards?
When I was in fourth grade, dodgeball was a scary game. I was a scrawny kid with glasses, a geek who made a delectable target because you’d get a satisfying thump followed by a comical backwards tumble if you hit me (“You’re going down like a sweet muffin!”).
Truly, I was a great morale-booster, especially for the kids who didn’t have great aim. Not only was I a hoot to hit, but I would run into the ball, guaranteeing them a kill.
Even the girls would gun for me with blood in their eyes. (“That is what I love about you, Kate. You got a personality.”) What a scary game.
At times, we played an Each-Man-For-Himself version, where there were no teams. Just random grade schoolers locked in a sadistic battle of death and painful ball welts.
The coach would stand there, arms crossed, and grin cruelly. His beady little eyes would follow us around the court, willing us to get hit. To him, we were real-life Itchy and Scratchy cartoons. Our pain was his amusement. (“That’s great. Go ahead; make your jokes, Mr. Jokey Jokemaker.”)
In one game, a bigger kid hurled a ball at my face so hard that my glasses were knocked into next week. For seven whole days, I had to put my homework up to my nose so I could read it, until my glasses came back. (“Oh, I don’t think I’m a lot dumber than you think that I thought I once was. Before.”)
There’s one game that I will never forget though. It was a landmark in my life, a cornerstone in my existence, a permanent skid-mark in my underpants. More specifically, it left a permanent skid-mark in my underpants. (“Your gym is a skid-mark on the underpants of society.”) Let me explain.
It was one of those free-for-all games. All of the bigger kids gunned for each other first. They saved the geeks like me for last. It was like Survivor; you go for the tougher opponents first, then take your time with the lesser targets because you know you can take them.
So by the time the head alpha male killed everyone with any remote chance of standing in his way, all that were left were a bunch of girls, and me.
One of the girls surprised him though. She dodged his ball and slammed him in the face with hers. He stormed off the court in rage. (“Nobody makes me bleed my own blood. Nobody!”) All of the girls cheered.
Then they followed the same strategy. Kill the strong first, save the weak for last. So naturally, they ignored me and aimed for each other.
It came down to the last girl and me. She looked at me with quiet regard, the kind of look you give a stranded puppy floating on a log in the river, after the puppy peed on your couch and tore up your favorite shoes. (“Now he’s a philosophizer.”)
She smiled at me. Her fangs flared behind her lips. She aimed. And she threw the ball.
In that moment, my life flashed before my eyes. I saw myself getting beaten up in first grade. Then getting beaten up in second grade. Then getting beaten up in third grade. Then I wet my pants.
Just kidding, I didn’t do that. Instead, I leapt to the side and dodged the ball. I crashed into the cold, polished ground and grabbed the nearest ball. My mind went into autopilot and my animal instincts took over. (“That’s me taking the bull by the horns. It’s how I handle my business. It’s a metaphor. But that actually happened though.”)
She backed up a few steps and continued to smile. Her arms were arched and ready to catch my throw. I scrambled up, raised the ball, and hurled it at her with all my might.
It pegged her in the leg and bounced away. She stared at me for a moment, stunned. The entire gym went silent. Then she fell to her knees and cried. (“Well I can be naughty too. Real freaky-naughty.”)
The crowd erupted in cheers. Seriously, they did. All of my classmates ran up to me and raised me onto their shoulders. I was terrified and elated at the same time. The coach looked on in utter astonishment. Everyone cheered, “Michael! Michael!” as they paraded me around the gym.
I had done it. I won the dodgeball game! I, the geek, who only moments before had been passed off as a target easier than a beached whale, had won the game.
Now that is a true underdog story.
. . .
Did you ever play dodgeball in grade school?
The line to the show was excruciatingly long. But that’s to be expected when you’re waiting to see Honda’s ASIMO, a four-foot walking humanoid robot.
After standing an hour on the crowded line, we took our seats and eagerly awaited the show.
“Um, excuse me.”
We looked up. One of the ushers inched over to our seats. She motioned towards Tim.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for volunteers from the audience to take part in our show. Would you like to be a volunteer?”
Tim blinked. “Uh, what do you mean?”
“You’d be part of the show. You’d have to sign a waiver. Then you get some free gifts, and a gift certificate.”
“Dude, do it!” I hooted.
“Totally Tim, that would be sooo cool!” Dawn cheered.
“Uhhh… I don’t know.”
“You’ll be on stage man! Dude! On stage!”
“I don’t know…”
“It’ll be easy,” the usher added. “You don’t have to do much.”
“Come on Tim, it will be sooo cooooool!” Dawn cheered again.
“Uh, I don’t know…” Tim shook his head. “Sorry, nah.”
The usher walked off. We turned to Tim.
“Oh my gosh, how come you don’t want to do it?” Dawn shook Tim in utter bewilderment.
“I don’t know… in front of all those people? On stage? I don’t know…”
“Dude, on stage. You’re right. You’d be on the freakin’ stage, with ASIMO. You’d get to touch ASIMO!” I looked Tim directly in the eyes. “The chicks in the audience would think you were such a stud, man. A major stud.”
Something sparkled in Tim’s eyes. Suddenly, he got up and walked away.
“Huh? Where’s he going? Is he pissed at us?” asked Dawn.
“Nope! He’s—he’s going to do it!”
“What, really? Cooooool!”
We watched our friend approach the usher. The usher shouted, “We got one!” into her headset and dragged Tim to the front. There, he sat down with two other volunteers and filled out waivers, effectively signing away their lives in the event that ASIMO explodes and sterilizes them with radiation.
The lights dimmed. The show finally began.
ASIMO and a presenter came on the stage. After an impressive demonstration, the presenter brought the three volunteers on.
Tim, an Asian-American guy, stood there between an African-American guy and a Caucasian girl. How multi-ethnic.
The presenter asked each one for his or her name. When Tim came up, Dawn howled, “Woooooo!”
“Ooo, looks like you’ve got some friends in the audience,” said the presenter. The lights flashed on momentarily.
“Woooooo!” Dawn continued.
I contemplated shouting, “Tim, you’re hot!” but didn’t get a chance to.
“Okay, now I’m going to quiz each of you,” the presenter continued. She asked each volunteer a multiple-choice question. Behind the presenter, ASIMO enthusiastically pumped his hand or shook his head at each answer, so the volunteers didn’t really have to use any brain power.
“Okay, now we’re going to show off some moves!” the presenter smirked. “Dance moves! First, we’re going to do Hawaiian! Come on volunteers, see if you can keep up!”
ASIMO gyrated its waist. Tim and the volunteers struggled to keep up.
“Now, let’s do Thai!”
ASIMO put its arms up and gyrated again. The volunteers almost tumbled into each other.
“Now everyone’s favorite: disco!”
ASIMO did a Saturday Night Fever impression. Tim’s hands shot into the air as he shook his money-maker. Dawn laughed out loud.
“That was great everyone!” cheered the presenter. “Okay, now we’re going to balance on one leg and see who can hold it the longest.”
ASIMO lifted one leg and tilted slightly. The volunteers did the same. They teeter-tottered. It was a good thing the presenter wasn’t strict on this contest; Tim fell at one point and quickly recovered with a shocked expression on his face.
After a few moments, the volunteers gave up. ASIMO stood there, still on one leg, and waved at them.
“All right! Great job everyone!” The presenter beamed a smile that could be seen on Pluto. “Let’s give our volunteers a big hand!”
Tim came back with a big smile on his face and a handful of free stuff.
“That was so totally coooool!” shouted Dawn.
“Dude, you are a stud. A major stud,” I stated.
Tim grinned. “That really was cool! Thanks for getting me up there! Too bad I couldn’t touch ASIMO though.”
. . .
Have you ever seen ASIMO?
“Who do you think they are?” I asked.
We studied the two guys who spilled out of the limo. They had long hair, hard rock T-shirts (one of them said “Motley Crue”), and the whole hard rock ensemble (black outfits, metal chains, boots, etc).
“I don’t know,” said Geraldine. “You’re the heavy metal guy, you should know.”
I eyed them intently from my peripheral vision as we walked into the House of Prime Rib, trying my best not to walk into a wall. “They look familiar, but I can’t quite place them.”
We took seats near the bar as we waited for our table. The two guys came into the restaurant, along with an entourage of photographers and other media people.
Then a tall man with a blonde woman around his arm strutted into the restaurant and disappeared in a back room.
“Hey, I recognize that girl!” shouted Noreen. “That’s that girl from Baywatch!”
“Baywatch?” I stood from my chair to get a better view. “Pamela Anderson?”
“No, no, her name is… um, Diana something, I think.”
“That’s not Kid Rock, so it’s definitely not Pamela Anderson. I wonder if that’s Motley Crue. But no, she wouldn’t be with them either.”
“No, no,” Noreen repeated. “That’s Diana D’Errico.”
“Who?” asked Jorge.
“She’s on Baywatch. C’mon, you boys watch Baywatch, don’t you?”
“Actually no,” Jorge replied with a dignified stare.
“I don’t either,” I chimed in.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Noreen said.
“Heh, of course! If I did, I’d admit it proudly, dammit. But I don’t. So what’s her name again?”
“Diana D’Errico, I think. Diana… or Donna or something.”
“It looks like she was with that tall guy. He looks so freaking familiar. I wonder who he his.” I mused. “I wonder if they’re Motley Crue. Maybe he’s Tommy Lee. I thought I saw a guy who looked like Nikki Sixx in that limo.”
The hostess approached. “You’re table’s ready,” she said, and led us to a different room that unfortunately didn’t offer us a view of the mystery celebrities.
When the waiter came by, I couldn’t help but ask, “Hey, do you know who those rocker guys are?”
“Um, no, I’m not handling that room. But I can find out for you.” And he was off.
Moments later, he returned. “I don’t recognize them or their name. It’s a long name though. Sorry.”
We thanked him and proceeded to place our orders.
After a fine meal of prime rib (and a very fine meal it was!), I excused myself to go to the restroom.
“Try and find out who they are!” Geraldine urged.
“Oh yea, I totally am going to.” I winked and headed to the other room.
But nature’s call was a bit stronger, so I ducked into the restroom instead. And lo and behold, the third tall guy was at the urinal, splashing out a pretty damn steady stream. I considered asking him who he was, but figured that would be too gay. And he’d probably kick my ass for being so gay.
So when the stall was free, I went in to do my business (just a number one, mind you). As I was going, I heard the tall guy let out a vociferous belch. Then he went out the door.
I flushed, washed my hands, and ran to the nearest waiter I could find.
“Excuse me, but do you know who those rocker guys are?”
The waiter leaned over and whispered to me, “That’s Motley Crue right there.”
“No shit!” My eyes lit. “I knew it! And the tall guy? Nikki Sixx?”
“Yep.”
“No shit! And the girl? Donna D’Errico?”
“Yep.”
“No fucking shit! You know I was just in the restroom with Nikki, and he didn’t wash his hands?”
“No shit!”
“Yep!”
Then, with a broad smile on my face, I ran back to my friends to relay the news.
. . .
Have you ever seen a famous rock star?
It’s time to go again. It’s time to go to the airport to sit and wait for a delayed flight. Time to fall asleep on the plane after munching on my ten peanuts (no more, no less).
Since February of 1999, I’ve been traveling almost every week. I’ve gotten a few stories from it. This is one of them.
So there I was sitting, wondering why James Earl Jones was on my plane.
He was in the first seat of first class. A book was in his hand; he was reading it peacefully. And he was wearing—get this—a Bell Atlantic shirt!
“Bell Atlantic: Where the Wild Things Are”
Two ladies in front of me did a double take on him. “Is that him? Is that him?”
The flight was from New York’s La Guardia Airport to Virginia’s Norfolk International Airport. I wonder what Mr. Jones wanted to do in Norfolk? Was it just a stop-over to another city? Maybe there’s family there? I wonder.
As I took my seat, a memory blipped in my mind. Someone had been talking about Darth Vader and his voice in the airport terminal. He must have been talking about Mr. Jones.
It was a crowded terminal. Bad weather caused dozens of delays. The terminal was hot and stagnant. I hadn’t noticed any particular commotion there to signify a celebrity in the midst—and I wondered—when did Mr. Jones board the plane? I’d imagine that hordes of admirers would have been bugging him for autographs had he walked through that jammed terminal.
After all of the passengers took their seats, a flurry of flashes blinked in first class—somebody was taking pictures up there. Of Mr. Jones no doubt.
Then we took off. The plane shuttered as it flew. The fault of bad weather.
A friend of mine in upstate New York, where it takes a ten minute drive to get to your neighbor, has a long and unpaved gravel driveway. Riding on it with a car is an endorsement for shock absorbers. The turbulence of this plane ride reminded me of that.
The bumps got so cacophonous that I wondered—what if we crashed? Damn, I thought, it would be a shame if Mr. Jones died on my flight. Not that it would be my fault in any way. But I’d feel darn bad if, during my first encounter with Mr. Jones, we crashed.
Obviously, we didn’t. Otherwise, It would be ghastly strange to be reading all of this from me.
The turbulence ended and we landed without further incident. I exited the plane without spotting Mr. Jones again.
Last week, as I exited a plane, I walked into the blazing light of a television camera. I wondered what famous person this camera for. A gathering of travelers was huddled around the cameraman. I got to my rental car without ever finding out who they were waiting for.
There had been no television camera for Mr. Jones though. I wonder why.
. . .
Have you ever flown with someone famous?
“I wish my shirt had a logo or product on it. A good shirt turns the wearer into a walking corporate billboard! It says to the world, ‘my identity is so wrapped up in what I buy that I paid the company to advertise its products!’”
- from Calvin & Hobbes
Ever see those people who just love flaunting the company of the clothes they’re wearing?
You know who I’m talking about. That guy who’s got the back collar of his shirt flipped over so you can see the label. Or that girl who’s got “Armani” proudly displayed on her bosoms. Or maybe it’s you who’s got a big Nike swoosh on your sweat pants.
The above quote from Calvin & Hobbes sums up how I feel about wearing logos on shirts.
At the same time, my marketing degree and background is laughing maniacally in the back of my mind, enraptured by the extra corporate branding these people are providing. “Ah, if only I was the evil genius who thought up that marketing ploy!”
I’m rather tempted to print up some shirts with my ML logo on it and sell them on this site. Perhaps some folks will buy it.
Perhaps you will buy it.
So hey! C’mon! Buy it! Be one of the many folks who own a shirt like this. Express your individuality and wear one just like everyone else. Help me advertise and pay me for it. It’ll be great!
. . .
Would you like to help me advertise?
