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The Man in The Hat 907
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TMiTH

TMiTH Fuck Tumbler

Price: $23.76
Color: Black

Product details

Description

A stainless steel tumbler with an unfiltered introduction. “Fuck.” Some days that's enough conversation.

For the shared look between people who know what complex trauma can leave behind. You decide whether the conversation goes any further. You. Are. Not. Alone.

Reusable, for hot or cold drinks on the go. Metal straw and lid included.

From The Man in The Hat 907. Sometimes CPTSD and PTSD get discussed in full sentences. Sometimes the first honest word is “Fuck.” Behind it is mental health, abuse-survivor solidarity, and refusing to leave generational trauma unnamed. Buying something is not the price of being understood here.

The practical shit

• High-grade stainless steel tumbler
• 20 oz (600 ml)
• Tumbler size: 3.11″ × 8.42″ (7.9 cm × 21.4 cm)
• Straw and lid included with the tumbler
• A cylindrical shape (top to bottom)

Disclaimer: Not dishwasher or microwave safe. Hand-wash only.

Cell BlockTMiTH 907

Door's shut. You're good.News and links

CO's walkin' the tier. Keep your voice down and set a spell.What's new and where to find me.

These walls

Old Max went up in 1871, before Colorado was even a state. Prisoners cut the stone out of the hill behind it and stacked their own cells. Forty-two of them. Four years later they built the wall, because men kept walking off.

In 1889 the state moved its killing inside these walls, out of public view. First a gallows that jerked a man up instead of dropping him. Then in 1934 the gas chamber, second state in the country to try it. The warden built the first one with three chairs so he could do three at once. The last man sat in that chair in 1967. On the tier, that chair is Old Sparky. It sits in the prison museum next door now, beside the electric shock machine they used to control the problem prisoners.

Stone holds the cold. The windows sit so deep that daylight barely crawls down to the lower tiers, and the gray shadow never leaves the bunks.

Nineteen-eighty-seven. Cañon City, Colorado. Old fucking Max.
Home of Old Sparky. Yeah, the chair. Yeah. That one.
The sally port closes with a metal cough and a full-body clang.
They strip you. Delouse you. Shave you down to the stubble.
No more crosses. No more "Live, Love, Learn" bullshit.
Just stone, steel, and honesty.
They stamp the paper and speak my new name: 62927.

TMiTH

Word on the tierNews

  1. The Fuck Hat

    They call me The Man in the Hat, and that sounds like cheap campfire bullshit until you see the scruff, the posture, and the eyes running the perimeter and realize it is pure field identification. Born covered in a strangers...

  2. Shit for Your Cell

    Inside the damp, limestone gloom of C.T.C.F. Old Max, the property sheet splits your whole fuckin life down into three precise, mechanical categories: The Survival. The Escape. The Wreckage.

  3. Hoodies and Tees

    For the waitress working the third shift. The guy hauling trash. The Gangsta doin shit. The one sitting with their back to the wall while everybody else wonders why they can't just fucking relax. Folk see it, and boom, yeah....

  4. Operation Sonic Somatics

    Operation Sonic Somatics. Sound for the 3am body that's still redlining, the one that won't shut the fuck off. The door opened. The perimeter didn't disappear. Walk out of the cage, sign the fucking paper, go live your life. Like...