Tank-style undershirt. Tuck them and its practically guaranteed to prevent plumber’s crack or that thing where the bottom of your gut hangs out that a lot of fat dudes seem oblivious to.

I stopped attending local MtG events many years ago because of this one cadre of assholes who not only had obnoxious personalities but also smelled like they carried old onions and dog shit in their back pockets.

“We don’t have Cosmos or NOVA but we do have a complete collection of Ancient Aliens and whatever bullshit Graham Hancock peddling at the moment.”

I’m pretty sure we’re all dead and this is Hell.