(If perchance you missed the title… this article is the continuation of something critics recently dubbed “brilliant”– a quote that may or may not have been prompted by National Speak Like A Guinness Ad Day.)

Shirt Guy was a character straight out of one of those R-rated teenage comedy films. There was an air of implausibility to every one of his actions, as if a director was hiding somewhere in the room constantly reminding him to do things bigger, faster and with more tension. Even the people around Shirt Guy seemed remarkably tense; he had marked his territory. But nothing compared to the tension of his shirt.

I’m sure any of my four or so readers are familiar with the exploits of the Incredible Hulk, and his penchant for wardrobe malfunctions while morphing from mild-mannered Bruce Banner to raging green skinned beastman. Well, Shirt Guy was like a freeze frame of Banner the moment just before his clothes tear to shreds, and like Banner, his shirt was surely the first item destined to dramatically rip from his body. You couldn’t help but wonder if his buttons holes were reinforced with titanium or some experimental government alloy made to aid the outer shell of fighter jets or politician’s egos. This is not to say that Shirt Guy was particularly muscular, in fact his build was fairly ordinary, but rather that his otherwise innocuous black button down clung so tightly to his torso that you had to conclude getting out of it also meant removing several layers of bone. The stress on those buttons alone was enough to give the average onlooker a migraine, enough to make me feel actual sorrow for a shirt.

My first thought, after planning a contingency escape should the buttons give way, flying like shrapnel in all directions, was to help the guy out. Here he was with his future at stake, in a situation where he was to be judged by relative strangers whose job it would be to make snap judgments about his talent level and mental health, and he showed up in a straight jacket. My second thought was that it might be easier to get some padded walls delivered to the audition room than get him out of that shirt. Still, there was a glimmer of hope for my constrictly clothed comrade. It was still the first day of U/RTA’s, the day in which we were to audition for just a few auditors who would then decide whether or not to pass us on to the real audition the following day (you know, the one for “real actors”). I felt genuine relief. It wouldn’t be possible for Shirt Guy to wear an equally tight shirt the next day, because some things, like dating twin bikini models without calling your buddies to brag, eating enough chocolate, or correctly answering the question, “Do you think my friend is attractive?” are systematically unachievable.

Shirt Guy showed up the following day in a blue shirt equally as dangerous and painful looking. I am convinced that he achieved this by sleeping in a vat of blue clothing dye the night before. There simply is no other explanation.

As it turned out, not only did Shirt Guy get passed on to the real audition the following day, but according to my super secret inside sources (I watched him do an impossibly stiff celebratory dance while he read his “final results” that evening) several schools expressed interest in his work. Good for Shirt Guy! I wish him all the insanely constricted success he desires. Who knows, maybe he’s only shockingly stiff in real life, and onstage he’s a regular Martha Graham. Maybe, but the chances of that are probably not so good. ‘Cause if you’re walking around in clothing so tight someone decides to blog about it, you’re probably a little out of touch (or the blogger’s a real asshole– probably both); either way, you may find that flexibility at both a physical and spiritual level eludes you.

How you fit into the world can have a lot to do with how you fit into your shirt. That’s the sort of practical advice that we theatre folk seem to lack as we fixate on iambic pentameter and relaxation exercises. It’s also lesson 1 in this ongoing series of virtual spew. Please tune in next time/whenever-I-decide-to-write-more-on-this-narcissistic-topic when I reveal to you further revelations made at the URTA’s, such as all the glory that is “Marlon Blando”.