Rebel Pickle

Name’s Pickles — but don’t get it twisted, he’s no sweet gherkin. Born in the back of a rancid walk-in, brined in bad attitude and barback lies.
He’s got beef with bland — so he tags every greasy tile with his sour gospel: Relish It! Dill with him wrong? He’ll snap like a bread and butter at last call. He’s kind of a big dill.
Stay crisp, stay briny — or get jarred by Pickles himself. One spray, you’re in a real pickle.”


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Pull it on for the walk-in. Peel it off by the glass. Heavy enough to whisper: you outlasted the chaos.
Cotton pure — unless it’s grey, then it’s a mongrel, loyal as hell.
Built thick to choke fryer smoke and drown regret.
Seams that don’t flinch. Fit that forgives but never slouches.
Cut and sewn by calloused hands. Worn by the ones who never clock out.

For the walk-in chill or a whiskey wind-down — heavy enough to say you made it.
100% cotton (grey’s a mutt, but faithful).
Thick to beat fryer smoke and regret.
Tough seams. Honest fit.
Made by workers. Worn by lifers.