Description: In my city homeless camps under the highway were bulldozed and then rich people set up glass domes near the spots (and beside a shelter) to use as restaurant booths for $550 a meal (for 4) and then the people eating there claimed to be poor and our allies. The cops are ignoring another serial killer killer queer people. The shelters are being moved outside of the city, and are past capacity anyway. Everything is condos. So this place has pretty much run its course I think.
Description: Once Italy's Great Hope, the Red Brigades have fallen on hard and actually pretty "treacherous" times, but we can commemorate the glory days by wearing these shirts and not informing on all our comrades to the police. And hey, if you get the chance, maybe bring the Italian state to its knees and send the fascists running.
Description: The Holy Spectre entered him at an early age and never left him. He devoted a long life to laying out the Universal Science in words, often forced to flee before the agents of Capital in order to continue his Holy mission. When the time came for him to leave this mortal plane, he was seen lifted up by the Spectre and carried high above where his entry into the Gates of Full Communism were witnessed by many below. After his passing he has appeared to countless millions, either in the form of his Divinely inspired words, or as a figure at the end of a shining path, beckoning. It is a common occurrence that his statues, when handed a pen and ink, and offered the proper admonishments, will write a treatise in the air.
Description: Tired of jackasses pummeling you with questions about whether dust gathers when you don't sweep, whether it's good or bad to be attacked by your enemies, or just where the fuck does political power grow? Well, no more. Just gather up all the smugness you can manage, gather a little more, gather just a little more, and then point to your shirt, or take a looooooong drink from your mug, glancing down at it repeatedly and suggestively. Read The Fucking Manual.
Description: Tired of jackasses pummeling you with questions about whether dust gathers when you don't sweep, whether it's good or bad to be attacked by your enemies, or just where the fuck does political power grow? Well, no more. Just gather up all the smugness you can manage, gather a little more, gather just a little more, and then point to your shirt, or take a looooooong drink from your mug, glancing down at it repeatedly and suggestively. Read The Fucking Manual.
Description: Let them know you're coming for their toothbrush, and that you'll be doing it through a fairly drawn out set of international guerilla wars in accordance with the gist of what seems to probably be what people want from place to place at any point in time, probably, and that it may involve periods where in some parts of any given place you outright own your toothbrush, but in others it's communal, and then in others there may be a confusing situation where, like, toothbrush magnates are part of the government, but they're not, you know, manufacturing toothbrushes for sale exactly, and are kind of participating with toothbrush collectivization, I guess against their will, and it seems like a bit of a messy and confusing situation but ...
Description: Smack the cover of Ulrike Meinhof’s Urban Guerilla Concept on a book you fill with obscenely detailed depictions of young Andreas Baader taking young Stalin's hand, drawing him closer, the world around them fading as their bodies run together losing track of where one ends and the other begins except to know they are not alone, there is some other, and this other is responsible for this ecstasy which is pumping through their veins, pumping, pumping, pumping... and communicate to whoever you’re near that yeah, you’re considering becoming an urban guerilla, no big deal. In a developed country like yours the protracted people’s war can totally take place in the city, whatevs. A book said so. It’ll be fine. You’re not even worried.
Description: The FLQ is what you redirect conversation to when an American "friend" brings up the Squamish Five, after which you feel a weird internal revulsion because you just defended Canada, as if you're some sort of patriot shit who can't take it being belittled, but then you remember the FLQ were Quebecois, not Canadian, and you don't know what to make of that what are you doing why has it come to this like what the hell does any of this mean? But then you say Paul Rose had better hair in other pictures and 20 minutes later you're all marveling over how attractive Stalin was when he was young, and you're in a whole other kind of crisis.
Description: It's the FLQ flag. Or, it's an FLQ flag. Their flag design cell must have been either the most overworked motherfuckers, or the most bored motherfuckers. Either way, they made too many flag designs. I recognize it doesn't make a pretty shirt, but that's the kind of bullshit an Anglo oppressor would care about.
FLQ Flag T-Shirt
$24
