urban

What a terrible hood ornament.

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Not only is it a Holocaust reference, but somehow this t-shirt also costs $100?

Just nothing like a t-shirt someone plucked from the bottom of an elementary school lost-and-found in 1996, and was like, “But how can I make this glaringly offensive?” and ironed on a Star of David patch. And then Urban Outfitters bought it! And is still trying to sell it!

It’s now without the star on the UO site, so I guess prospective buyers are in for a terrible surprise, beyond the existing reality of owning a $100 mustard t-shirt from Urban Outfitters.

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“Okay, Makayla, think Seductress of the Human Resources Department, slouch–no a little more–and look into the sun. Yes, amaze.”

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Isaac looks up from the gravy to find Mattie in the kitchen doorway, mock solemn.

“Not only because of my regard for you as a friend and a person, but because it’s Thanksgiving, and the hour of family and random there’s no room at the inn but the Church Mice from Robin Hood will have you acquaintances, I’m going to tell you this gently,” Mattie says, placing her hand on the one with which he’s stirring gravy at the stove. “That girl from your roommate’s office is high as fuck.”

“What? Nah,” Isaac shakes her hand off and leans over the stove, peering into the living room. She’s swaying, ostensibly to the Christmas music, but not to the beat.

“It was dubious anyway when she brought that raw artichoke and said that thing about it being a grenade of thanks,” Mattie says, plucking a few green beans from the saucepan still on the stove. “But she just tried to put John’s hand on her plate when he was carving the turkey.”

Isaac runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe she pre-gamed this–this morning, and just has really shitty depth perception. You ever see Ryan trying to shoot a free throw? It looks like a goose dying in flight.”

“Oh forgot the part where she requested dark meat while doing it,” she says.

“Jesus Christ, Baker. That is awful, and, like, probably racist. No, definitely racist.”

“She also told your sister to take the candles and–”

“–please stop talking,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “And why don’t you get your ass in the kitchen and be useful like a woman for once?”

She grins and moves around him, cutting up some more bread — real Julia Child action, right there. He stirs on, trying determine how atrocious it would be to casually throw out a high girl on Thanksgiving before his pastor cousin stopped by.

Mattie slaps the bread knife on the counter.

“Dude, she literally just put that Ikea bowl on her head,” she says. “That’s probably like an Urban Outfitters thing, though. Like an ironic bowl cut.”

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