Jesus Take The Wheel

Faith, Fumes, and Felonies

You don’t need a savior.
You need a six-pack, a lighter, and one more reason not to turn yourself in.
This shirt doesn’t preach, it confesses — proudly, loudly,
and with enough open containers in the backseat to qualify as evidence.
You’ve asked for directions, lost your license,
and ended up in three different counties on a Tuesday afternoon.
But hey, you’re still breathing, and the truck still mostly runs.

This is for the kind of person who doesn’t just ride dirty — they live dirty.
The ones who believe in divine intervention
but also know their guardian angel gave up years ago.
You’ve woken up in ditches, pissed behind churches,
and asked strangers for jumper cables while holding a beer.
This isn’t a parody. This is autobiography.

You're not trying to set a good example.
You're trying to survive long enough to laugh about it.
You’re the reason warning labels exist.
The reason road signs get stolen.
You’ve got one eye on the gas gauge and one hand on the next mistake.
And when things go sideways,
you don’t panic — you blame the GPS and finish your drink.

This shirt doesn’t care about consequences.
It doesn’t care about logic.
It’s for the people who treat every drive like a mission from hell,
every stoplight like a drinking challenge,
and every empty road like a confession booth.
You don’t pray. You improvise.
And you’re still here — mostly.

Wear it proudly. Wear it dirty.
Wear it like you’ve already outrun the worst of it —
and might just do it again tonight.

Sunday service happens in the breakdown lane.