It's called irony, people

So I have this lovely pink baby T that says, "World's Best Grandma." In case you care to see it for yourself, I ordered it from Glarkware, a treasure trove of fun T-shirts from which I also got my "Who's Your Spy Daddy?" baby T. When ordering the Grandma shirt, I thought its hilarity was self-evident. I could not have been more wrong. When I pass people on the street, they usually look confused, and I can see them trying to do the math in their heads. Sometimes they even look offended, like how dare I make light of teen pregnancy. (Not that I haven't made light of teen pregnancy, but it was just the once, and it was damn funny.) I've been harrassed on the Metro ("Yer not really a granmaw, are ya?"), at work ("What's with the shirt?"), in class ("No, really, what's with the shirt?"), and last week I was stopped on the street by a gentleman who politely asked, "Excuse me, miss, but might you be wearing someone else's shirt today?" Andrew once suggested that I respond to such people by telling them I knocked off an old lady and stole her shirt, but I don't think I'm capable of that.

The only conclusion I can come to, having already rejected the idea that I might just have a really twisted sense of humor, is that my fellow students and public transport denizens lack a sense of irony. My few attempts to explain the humor of it all have failed utterly, and I refuse to try ever again. From now on I'm just going to pretend that if the shirt says it, it must be true, in which case there are a lot of D.C. tourists that have recently become CIA agents.