How's this for a fashion statement? Radar slips into something less comfortable

Once the province of Spencer Gifts, the novelty T-shirt is now proudly flaunted by post-adolescent frat boys and Judd Apatow extras, and, naturally, it's cruder and nastier than ever. Marketed by censor-free online start-ups like foulmouthshirts.com and assholetshirts.com, the next generation of slogan wear makes that "Mustache Rides" tank your dirty uncle used to rock seem positively Victorian. But what happens when one attention-starved person's right to express himself with prepackaged offensive slogans intersects with a bystander's right to beat him about the head? To find out, Radar selected a few of the most repellent options available and took them for test-drives around New York City.

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Test Site: Bloomingdale's
59th and Lex
(rinawear.com)

Results: Employees and clients alike seem thoroughly unimpressed. After 30 minutes of wandering around, garnering only smiles, I succumb to the pitch of a foppish cologne salesman named Manuel. Shelling out $55 for a bottle of Michel Germain's Sexual, I ask Manuel why he ignored my shirt. "Nothing shocks me, honey," he says, directing a coworker's gaze to my chest. "Elena, do you have a problem with this?" She takes a look. "Oh!" laughs Elena. "That shit is way funny!"

Test Site:
New York Sports Club
Midtown
(tshirthell.com)

Results: In the weight room, I sashay up to a guy who looks like an NFL linebacker—a very heterosexual linebacker. With the arrow on my shirt identifying him as an enthusiastic admirer of the male sexual organ, I ask if he'd mind spotting me. "Not a bit," he says. After grunting through a couple of sets, I thank him while ostentatiously scratching the cock on my chest. "You're welcome," he replies, with what might be a wink or a spasm of ill-repressed anger. I shower at home.

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Test Site: Bar Tabac
Brooklyn
(tshirthell.com)

Results: I approach a casually dressed cutie who's sitting on a stool, alone. (Perhaps her fat friend is in the bathroom sobbing about the media's cruel beauty standards.) "How's it going?" I ask, puffing up my chest. She gives the shirt a once-over, then replies with an inviting smile, "Good! What's your name?" Hers is Nadine, and she chats me up for 10 minutes before I start feeling guilty. I make an excuse and bolt. Maybe the age of irony has finally eclipsed the feminist revolution.

Test Site: Ritz-Carlton
Central Park South
(foulmouthshirts.com)

Results: While the doorman pays only a passing glance, inside the lobby a stern-faced manager approaches. "Can I help you?" he asks. Finally, some indignation! I ask where the bar is and prepare to be tossed. "Very good, sir. It's just over there to your left," he says. Downing vodka tonics, I perch on a gilded stool as an array of elderly couples and power brokers in bespoke suits do double takes. Paying the tab, I ask about the bartender's lack of reaction. She shrugs: "It takes all kinds."

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Test Site: MoBay Uptown
Harlem
(assholetshirts.com)

Results: A response! "That offends me deeply!" one woman tells me. "Do you know where that stereotype comes from? It's from back when white people used to think black men had tails. What are you doing coming to an area like this wearing something like that?!" she yells. "Want to find out what some of these brothers think?" An African American gentlemen strides over, plants himself inches away, looks me up and down slowly, and scowls. "Damn," he says finally. "Why are you wearing that Red Sox hat?"