I Like This 'T-Shirt' FashionCommentary • ISSUE 36•15 • Apr 26, 2000 By T. Herman Zweibel, Publisher Emeritus (photo circa 1911) In my study yesterday, I watched my beautiful son N. Aeschylus melt his play-things with intense beams of light that shot from his eyes. Precocious little shaver! But despite such playfulness, I could sense discontent within young N. Aeschylus. A latent discontent, to be sure, yet deep and fierce, filled with fury, hatred, and resentment. I know not who or what could be the object of his dormant wrath, but I would hate to be that person when it finally explodes like a raging volcano! Fortunately, I knew the cure for N. Aeschylus' choleric mood: a big bag of penny sweet-meats and little play-mates his own age! I had Standish obtain several of the servants' younger children for my son's companionship. As I watched them cavort in the court-yard, I noticed the unusual garments N. Aeschylus' new friends were wearing. While N. Aeschylus was quite properly garbed in a velvet Little Lord Fauntleroy suit and knee-stockings, the other children wore short-sleeved tunics embossed with unorthodox characters. For example, one of the garments read "Pokémon," with an abominable yellow creature situated under the strange word. Another garment was adorned with the admonition, "Warning: I Am Two Years Old!" I asked Standish about this queer development in children's fashion. He explained that the children were wearing something known as a "T-shirt," a popular, inexpensive mode of dress amongst the yeomanry which typically bears a name, phrase, or design conveying an irreverent attitude on the part of its wearer. "A coarse practice, but endearing," I told Standish. "I would like a 'T-shirt' of my own. Go to the village T-shirtery and obtain one for me. I favor one that states, 'William Randolph Hearst Is A Lascivious Vulgarian, And You Mustn't Buy One Of His Cheap, Tawdry Scandal-Sheets, Even If Your Very Well-Being Depended Upon It.'" Unfortunately, a T-shirt of that opinion does not exist. However, Standish did obtain one for me which bore the cryptic inscription, "Official Bikini Inspector." I displayed it on my chest until the immense weight of the cotton fabric threatened to splinter my frail, antediluvian rib-cage. It was removed and hung upon my bed-post, so that I may gaze upon it always. I must now return my attentions to my son. Apparently, he's trying to entomb his play-mates in a mass grave. Whimsical tot! N. Aeschylus, darling, come in and have your tea and zwieback toast!