American Apparel Invites You To Wear This Menstruating Vagina On Your Chest

American Apparel Invites You To Wear This Menstruating Vagina On Your Chest

There are so many things to say about American Apparel’s menstruating-vagina tee. For instance! We can all laugh at our friend Doktor Zoom for not knowing what the “squigglies” on the labia and perineum were. (They are parameciums, Dok, obviously.)

We can have a fine debate on whether American Apparel’s excellent labor and immigration stances — they produce their garments in Los Angeles, at the world’s highest apparel salary of $12 to $14 per hour, regardless of immigration status — outweighs Dov Charney’s alleged behavior with female employees (most of the sexual harrassment lawsuits were eventually thrown out). (If Charney had been guilty of supergrossness and harassment, our answer would have been a Millsian Utilitarian approach and say the benefit of thousands of happy, well-paid workers outweighs the pain and suffering of the few. AND YES, WE KNOW, UTILITARIANISM LEADS TO HITLER.)

We can express our admiration for public affirmations of “visits” “from Aunt Flo” “who brought a bunch of period blood with her” “which is a pretty weird thing to bring to someone actually” because that is what we do, every month. (We are like, “CRAMPS!” on Facebook, or “hot damn, it is a three-pad day!” pretty much upon meeting people for the first time, because we do not believe periods are something to be ashamed of, because FEMINIST.)

But what we cannot do is approve of wearing this shirt in public. Why, because we are Book Burning Philistines What Hate Art And Vaginas? Obviously, that. But also because it’s rude. It’s rude to put things in people’s faces that they don’t want to look at, and it’d be just as rude to wear a T-shirt with a giant erect schwanz on it, or one that we saw on a hipster on an airport once that read “I Sharted,” and we even frowned at him, like a suburban housewife.

Here, let’s get a close up.

Carrie's prom

We quite like it — we are a sucker for pictures of vag by university feminists — on, say, a poster or print in our home. Or at an art gallery. Or, fuck, to a party of witches or Brooklynites we guess? But until you get there, i.e., while you are still making your way on the L, you should really cover that shit up, for politeness’s sake. In most cultures it’s not nice to show your bits before you’ve been properly introduced. Also, we don’t care to know if you sharted.


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