Somewhere, deep in the heart of Romania, the shirtmaker weeps.

For he, like his father and grandfather before him, is a maker of shirts. A master craftsman. A skilled tailor, an artist with needle and thread.

Alas, the douche plague has taken his spirit and cast his soul into the nethers of a swirling blight of Tag Bodyshots and cheezed out tribal tatts.

For the shirtmaker knows that his artistry, his skill, all his family talent, will be lost forever.

Because shirtless tools in cargo shorts with metallic arm bracelets and Marisa Tomei Hotts on their arms no longer feel the need for his product.

And so the lonely shirtmaker in rural Romania weeps. He stares dispirited at his threads, his collars, his materials. Not even a fake "Armani/Exchange" logo can save his trade from ruin.

So he reads his Tolstoy by candlelight, sips his port wine, and cries out for the lost shirts of a shirtless culture. And then he mocks their freedom trails.