No. Shit no. Take these shirts, compress them into a giant compact ball of fabric, and ignite them in the middle of the desert. Soak these shirts with flat generic sugary soda and drop them in the rain forests to be devoured by ants. Glue each shirt together to form a gigantic trash-catching net in the Indian Ocean. Find the person who signed off on these shirts and humiliate them mercilessly until they apologize and reconsider their life's mission. Tar and feather the shirts themselves so that no one ever has to see one. Tear these shirts into shreds and dress up like a Redneck Axl Rose this Halloween. Bribe a truck driver to break down on a deserted highway near a feedlot and integrate these shirts into the literal manure that they symbolically embody or do any damn thing else with these horrifying, nut-clenching, reflux-inducing, visually toxic and shit-tastic excuses for cutesy team apparel. But don't ever buy or wear this fucking shirt.