NZ shirt dimensions: twig arms and parachute torsos and hypersonic hashtag-boss-bitches

Great googly moogly 😮 Wellington's clothing stores seem to have an incredibly poor opinion of the physique of the average Kiwi male.

Great googly moogly 😮 Wellington’s clothing stores seem to have an incredibly poor opinion of the physique of the average Kiwi male.

Last Saturday, my gal and I spent far too many hours picking out a gazillion theoretically rather nice-LOOKING shirts for the first day at my latest day-job. But 90% of the shirts I sampled tailor their shoulders, upper back and upper arms so tightly they squidge my upper torso to sausagey jelly.

The shirts’ chest- and tummy-regions, however, are tailored so sloppily they billow in the breeze like those publicity shots a certain species of aspiring-upmarket-woman snaps of herself attempting yoga on the beach in high winds and resplendent in a ginormous flimsy sundress twenty metres broad, like she’s trying to out-bridal-train Princess Di. Either that or she’s luxuriating as a cosplay hypersonic spaceplane concluding its atmospheric re-entry and runway landing, and she’s commanding frantic airport personnel teams to re-stow her vast feather-light silk drag ‘chute back up her bum.

More power to her, says I, if that’s how a gal like her cultivates her jollies, but turns out attempting similar at my new workplace is a teensy bit tricky. The Space Shuttle notoriously required a 15,000 foot runway. My latest work-closet spans barely half that. If I and/or any of these hashtag-boss-bitches should attempt such a rectal spaceplane landing through its office windows and equipped with such a ridiculous and flouncy dress shirt, even sized XXXXXXXL, for gracious yes such shirts exist, then we’d bowl over half of Wellington’s skyscrapers like glassy skittles.

That honestly sounds like a hoot, but best not mix business with pleasure. So locating three rare non-bum-’chute shirts took friggin’ hours. I try to stay in decent shape but would hardly call myself the Incredible Hulk, but it seems most shirt manufacturers reckon the average bloke in these parts resembles Mr. Potato Head.

Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2026/5/nz-shirt-dimensions-twig-arms-parachute-torsos-hypersonic-hashtag-boss-bitches

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Further Reading: The SEXYVERSE NOVELS

IN A WORLD where wars are fought with romance and flirting and delicious erotic TENSION, the rivalries throbbing between history’s Great Powers have become a BUTTLOAD more bubbly, with fewer hideous massacres of musket and cannon, and OODLES more frisky cunnilingus contests:

The Sex Commandos Thwart The Third Vaginal Apocalypse

Part One: The Knights Of Raw Phwoar

Might Earth’s free nations drown under terrifying tornadoes of French femme-foam? Like hell, shout Britain’s Royal Marines Sex Commandos. Let’s assassinate France’s Imperatrix Brigitte Bardot! Come on. What’s the worst that could happen?

Part Two: The Soviet Sluts Superb

Turns out out-flirting Imperatrix Bardot is like trying to wank off Mt. Blanc when it’s wanking you back. Plan B: skedaddle, regroup, out-flirt the entirety of France and get loads more practice, then it’s stealthy-sneaky Round Two or bust.

Part Three: The Cervical Supremacy

Turns out flirting with every ladybro Rambo in France produces Rivals and Frenemies and Jilted Waifus galore. Smashing fun, but utter Kryptonite for Imperial kill-plans. Like, ever tried noshing off a world leader whilst a billion fanb0is fondle your buttocks? Want to? Read on!

Part Four: The Praetorian Prostitutes

The game’s up! The irresistible force of fanb0i-fondlemania has headbutted the immovable object of a gazillion furious Paris cops. They too thirst for Sex Commando patoot. Crunch time. Either launch one final rocket-strike against Bardot and France, or Earth’s free nations forever perish.

Part Five: [soon, baby]

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Crave more bullshit laughs? Click these and enjoy these and your appetites will be SATISFIED. And it’ll make me incredibly happy. You put yummy in my tummy, you know that?