We Want This Dude, His Shirt

Back when our founding editor attended his privileged Yankee prep school (in a tiny little hamlet in Eastern Pennsylvania), he earned a little dough on the side by selling University of South Carolina hats with one word on them.

COCKS.

That’s right. Those things sold like hot cakes, too, people. And Sic’s seventy-five percent markup wasn’t bad, either.

Before long, you could find one of Sic’s merchandising booths at every high school hockey game in the Keystone State – where they were always manned (or wommaned, as it so happened) by sufficiently-cleavaged, gum-smackin’ “around the way girls” named Beth. Or Maggie. Or Julie. Or Amy.

Or something like that.

Anyway, Sic and his girls made their base of operations a small “candy store” just off campus, where trucks would deliver the merchandise in popcorn tins.

After making enough money at age eighteen to live comfortably for the rest of his life, Sic somehow managed to blow it all in the span of a few months on smack, hookers, Atlantic City and other efforts to impress the future Thurston B. Howell IV’s of the world he had taken to rolling with at the

It’s a sad tale, people. The first fall of the great man, but an integral component of the cult of personality he’s building.

The point of all this? We forgot …

Wait … the shirt. That guy’s T-shirt in the picture above is exactly the sort of merchandise that Sic could have moved thousands of back in “the day.”

“Party Like A Cock Star.”

How awesome.

Plus, Holmes had the cutest little baby with him who wore an AB/CD shirt modeled after the AC/DC logo.

Like this …

Swoon.

Seriously, the FITS gals need to go with Sic to the ballgame more often. Because that guy can model T’s for us any day of the week …

Va-va-voom.