I found this shirt hanging quietly on a thrift-store rack, minding its own business, yet somehow screaming louder than every graphic tee around it. From a distance, it looks wholesome—Born to Fish, a noble declaration, a simple lifestyle brand for dads named Gary. But then you get closer. And closer. And suddenly the shirt grabs you by the collar and whispers an entire anti-capitalist manifesto in Comic Sans energy. This is not a shirt. This is a cry for help with a largemouth bass on it.
The top line says born to fish, which feels optimistic, almost spiritual. Like destiny itself handed you a fishing rod at birth. But then the lower text hits you like a performance review you didn’t ask for: forced to sell my labor in exchange for a fraction of the value I produce. Sir. I was just trying to browse t-shirts between a NASCAR hoodie and a faded band tee from a tour that never happened. I did not consent to being radicalized next to the clearance rack.
What really elevates this shirt is the fish. That fish knows things. That fish has seen middle management. It has definitely worked overtime without pay and smiled through it. This is not a happy fish. This is a fish that clocks in, clocks out, and dreams of the weekend—not for joy, but for recovery. The fact that fishing, the thing it was allegedly born to do, is relegated to “sometimes” on weekends is the most realistic detail I’ve ever seen printed on cotton.
In the end, this shirt isn’t funny because it’s exaggerated—it’s funny because it’s devastatingly accurate. It’s the uniform of someone who understands the system, hates the system, but still has to show up on Monday. You don’t wear this shirt to look cool. You wear it to let strangers at the grocery store know you are one bad meeting away from quitting your job, buying a tackle box, and answering emails never again.
