Last night at work, a shaggy, skinny hipster came through my line, wearing a George Strait Tour 1986 t-shirt that was about two sizes too small, even for his emaciated frame, but it was a nice shirt. Blue, with just simple white writing, in George Strait's trademark cursive logo.
"Hey, I like your shirt," I said to him, partly serious, but also partly testing him.
He looked down at it to see which shirt he was wearing. "Oh thanks," he said, smiling a little.
"Have you actually had that since you were a kid?" I asked, innocently enough.
He smiled, bigger this time. "Ah, no, it's just...from a thrift store or something," he stammered.
"Oh," I said, "so it's like, ironic?"
He shrugged sheepishly, cleary a little embarrassed. "Yeah, I guess."
I nodded. "Oh," I replied, "that's really cool." The sarcasm was dripping.
I kind of felt like a dick, but I also kind of didn't.