Idle Thumbs Store

If you ordered something before we closed, it's on the way!

About the Store

Whether it's a podcast or a fancy t-shirt, we strive to make things for you that are worth having.

Our shirts? Made in the best places we can find and screenprinted here in San Francisco. Stickers? Made in California by the hardworking folks at Sticker Robot.  Prints? We tracked down the finest print shop in the city. The point is, we didn't want to make some slapdash merch for you—we wanted to make high-quality stuff you'd be excited to receive.

We aim to send out goods within 48 to 72 hours. Shipping speed is dependent on the option you select when you place your order. Goods are shipped from San Francisco, California.

If you have any trouble, drop us a line at and include as much relevant information as possible. Idle Thumbs isn't our full-time gig so we're not always the absolute fastest but we'll do our darnedest to solve the problem.


"I really want to commend the thumbs on a quality shirt. It's soft, fitting, and the logo is crisp and high quality. I've bought expensive tshirts way shittier than this. I don't know what it costs to make these, but if you guys put that effort into future shirts, count on a purchase." —Murdoc from the Idle Forums

"Whenever I go to buy t-shirts on the internet I think, 'These won't be as nice as my Idle Thumbs shirts,' and get really sad." —@Penixtissue

"It is one of the best quality shirts I own. The print quality is really incredibly good and the material is soft and fitting." —Kolzig from the Idle Forums

"I just wore an Idle Thumbs shirt for 3 days straight while camping. It performed admirably." —Wikipedia Brown from the Idle Forums

March 15, 1976

“I need your help, Jeff.” 

“That’s Mr. Jeff to you, Borges,” said Goldblum, lifting the empty glass to rest on his face. “And I’ll have another drink before I, uh, well, yes.” 

Breaking the pale pane of moonlight to accept the dry tumbler, I took note of the curiously perfect smudge of lipstick on its gold rim. He followed my gaze to the trace evidence. 

“Oh, my, my, my. You’re thinking, uh, how did that get there? Well, I’ll tell you,” said Jeff, kicking his feet onto the desk. His polished boots were extraordinarily large even for a man of his imposing size. 

“But first let me ask you this: Is there anything more lovely, more luscious, more lascivious than, er?” he asked, as I hastily prepared the drink from the sidebar.

“Here’s what I think,” he said, extending one finger in proclamation; but he only hung there, his frame lifted in anticipation as if awaiting the downbeat, his lips curling into a knowing smile before softly breathing the answer: “No.” And at that he laughed, a long sharp laugh that reverberated through the dusty room like the snapping of guitar strings. 

“Jeff, I really need your help.”

“Are you a jazz man, Sparky?” he asked. “Everything I know, I learned from that great American art form that we call, well.” 


His thin black brow suddenly furrowed, descending upon his countenance like a vulture diving for its prey.

“Now I’ll tell you Jasper, you need to learn to get to the point. I can’t sit here all day humoring you. Then where would we be? Exactly. Precisely. Undoubtedly.” He methodically unbuttoned his shirt as he uttered each word of the coda, revealing 


If life's got you down, bother us, because we care about you.

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