Bahamarama. Time for Love, Truth and Honesty.

You’re a man. You’re fat. You want to appear sexy, but relaxed.

What do you do?

Well, many of you choose to pop down to your local massage parlor, get rubbed down by a large, bored woman, and after the rub down, a little rub up.


Others of you, those who are still frightened of the women you sleep with (or, at least, live with), pop down to your local Nordstrom, and buy yourself a Tommy Bahama shirt.

We Pondants can see that shifty, greasy Floridians, those who appear in many a Carl Hiassen novel, look appropriately absurd in these oversized dishcloths brought back from an especially drunken vacation in the Turks and Caicos Islands.

But if you’re a fat hedge fund manager, a gross marketing executive from Wisconsin, a just a dozy Californian with a moustache that appeared after a rough night on the ganja and never left, there is simply no excuse.

These shirts do not suddenly give you that island feeling. They give those that have to look at you a biley feeling.

Perhaps Mr. Gonzales could have included a clause in the Patriot Act to stop people wearing these things. Perhaps the women of the world could unite in their outrage and march on Mr. Bahama’s headquarters.

Things have to change. I must speak to Ms. Pelosi on the subject.

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