The Mutant Brothers Blog.

Banana Car T-Shirts Are Now Available!

Posted on: September 22nd, 2016 by Tom Brown

If you like the car, you will love the shirt. Order an official Big Banana Car T-Shirt!

$15.00 per shirt. $6.00 shipping (up to 6 shirts)

Scroll down all the way to see all styles and sizes….

Mens Grey Big Banana Car T-Shirt


Mens Medium
Mens Large
Mens XL
Mens 2X

Ladies Grey Big Banana Car T-Shirt


Ladies Medium
Ladies Large
Ladies XL
Ladies 2X

Youth Grey Big Banana Car T-Shirt


Youth Small
Youth Medium
Youth Large

Adult White “I Rode The Big Banana Car” T-Shirt


Adult Medium
Adult Large
Adult XL
Adult 2X

Youth White “I Rode The Big Banana Car” T-Shirt


Youth Small
Youth Medium
Youth Large

Please email us at or call (269) 806-7063 with any questions.

Banana On!

3 thoughts on “Banana Car T-Shirts Are Now Available!”

  1. Dear Sirs and Madams,

    I am most enthused by the yellow and vibrant nature of your products. I stumbled upon this beautiful treasure trove by way of my bi-weekly internet searches for banana-themed products. I was most entranced by the strong internet force tugging me in the direction of your website, and I just about choked (in the best possible way) on the freshly picked Cavendish banana that I had just removed from my Florida garden. After quickly downing a can of Pibb Xtra (my favorite beverage; it’s really the bomb-diggity!) to wash the sweet banana lodged in my esophagus down into the rather venomous ocean that is my stomach, I began to look up and down the pages, my eyes growing wider and wider with each glance. Since I realized that I’d never be able to, in good taste, purchase the “I rode the big banana car” and wear it without actually having ridden on the car, I took it upon myself to turn my 1995 Honda Civic into a TRUE banana-mobile. I called my neighbor, Gladys, who came over with her cat Hans and a song of the mighty banana in her heart. We raided our local grocer for every single banana that they had, and, after getting some confused/concerned/disconcerting looks from the staff in the checkout line, proceeded to head over to “Nose Candy” Jenkins’ auto body shop across the street. We asked for as many blowtorches as he had in stock, and when he wouldn’t hand over the last one (because apparently he couldn’t give them ALL away), we negotiated our way to a deal by trading him 5% of our banana supply for it. Anyhoo, we got back to my house, stacked the blowtorches on top of each other, and placed them all facing the Honda. I patted the hood and whispered into its rear-view mirror, “it’s alright old girl, it’s just like when humans get a little botox… and maybe a face lift as well”. I gave Gladys the thumbs up, and she pressed the button that we hooked up to all the blowtorches for the ease of turning them all on in one fell swoop. Now, I’m a septuagenarian woman, and I can’t feel or hear things quite as well as I could in my prime, so I didn’t even realize that I was on fire ’till Gladys pulled me out. She shouted that I should stop, drop, and roll, which I did, but that didn’t really help too much, because wouldn’t you know it? Now the dry grass was on fire. Serves me right for not watering it all summer! Anyway, the blaze was absolutely out of control at this point, and parts of my house and Hans’ cat jungle gym were being incinerated in Satan’s flatulence. I knew what my two options were now: Die, or finish this gall darn banana car. I told Gladys to turn off the torches, but I think that she must’ve fallen asleep after the exhausting task of saving me from the flames. I don’t blame her. She’s older than I am and always talks about what a real all-around go-getter James K. Polk was. I smashed the off button and was able to catch a glimpse of the lumpy hamburger that was my car. I had initially intended to re-form the shape of my Civic in a sort of glass blowing type of deal, but I hadn’t quite realized how mighty the flames actually were. Now, there was just a hunk of chewed black licorice Laffy Taffy where my 1995 Honda Civic once stood. The air smelled like soot. Kinda like my husband’s ashes, actually. They were in a urn on the mantel in my living room, which was currently being decimated in an ever-growing wall of orange and red flames. Oh well. It’s not like he could get any more burnt than he already was. Ron was always fond of warmer climates anyway. I shook Gladys awake and we both grabbed as many sacks of bananas as we could and strapped them to the roof of the car with a bungee cord (with little smiling banana patterning encasing the tube) that I had in my breast pocket. As soon as those bananas hit the scorching roof of the car, a loud sizzling sound began to ring through my barely-working eardrums, and I saw a dense, pale yellow liquid begin to ooze from the bags. It was fragrant as all getup, and in a single visceral instant, both Gladys, Hans, and I dove forwards to lap the sweet succulent banana goo from the car. Sure, I tasted metal. I tasted soot. I think I even tasted a little bit of my husband, who was, as I could only assume at this point, in the air with the rest of the smoke. But golly gee whiz, it was worth it! Those were some fine bananas! I soon snapped back to my senses, told Gladys to stop being such a cotton-headed ninny-muggins, and proceeded to open what was left of the car door. We all got in, and upon sitting, realized that we were basically atop a large stove. I determined that the best option was to attempt to drive with my haft out of the shaft, so to speak, so I lifted my tuchus into the air (slightly out the window, actually) and put the key in the ignition. Although it took a few tries (and a little bit of elbow grease, might I add) we were soon pulling out of the driveway and into the street, which I had neglected to realize, was now in fact, totally ablaze. Guess everyone forgot to water their lawns this summer! I looked over at Gladys, who, to my surprise, had not attempted to lessen the pain on her stinker in any way at all! What a brave woman. Smoke was rising out from under her pants, and I heard a similar sizzle to the once created by the bananas earlier on the roof. I gave her a reassuring smile, and said “Well, at least the age hasn’t gotten rid of your smokin’ hot nature!” I thought that was pretty clever. Dare I say, even a little poetic! I looked at her, and she gave a light smile while wincing and gestured to the seat behind her. In that seat, I saw Hans, who appeared to be, well… dead. To put it lightly, his head was very much a part of the car, now. As I looked back at Gladys, I saw a single tear roll down her cheek, and sizzle as it hit her steaming pants. “God, always thinking about yourself!” I said, frustrated. That was a witty comment! Looks like someone’s not getting a Bridge Club invitation next Saturday. Regardless, I turned my focus to the road, which was difficult, since we were totally encased in flames and banana juice. It was just like when Ron and I went to Bermuda in ’75! Over the roar of the flames, I heard the sound of incoming alarms. Now, of course my natural assumption was that the alarms belonged to those of police cars who were going to come and take us back to the station for arson. So as I gunned it into the inferno, I neglected to consider the possibility that it was in fact firefighters coming to help us. Silly me! I watched as we slammed into the chief’s truck, the pump truck, and the ladder truck, one after the other. See, the melted metal of my civic had sort of clumped together at the front of the car, forming a battering-ram-type-of-deal. I leaned out the window, face against my partially extended rear end, and shouted, “Sorry Dearie! The song of my people is calling!” And it was. From Gladys’ incessant screaming in the front seat (I was getting pretty sick of her brouhaha), and the screams of Phyllis from Bridge Club (Whose living room we plowed through as we exited on the edge of the fire, I felt oddly in my element. We finally stopped outside a truck stop outside of Tuscon (who knows how long we had been driving for) where we disembarked our vessel. The old gal had been though a lot, and it now reeked of banana and deep-fried salmon (the cat, I assume). I whispered into the lumpy potato that had once been a rear-view mirror, “I love you, and I always will. Now here come the Bananas!” We concluded our day with a lot of bananas being taped to the car with some very high-quality camouflage duct tape, courtesy of the nice bearded man running the facility named Zeke. At some point, when Gladys turned around, I think that I saw her bare tailbone poking through her trousers. I know that most of your gluteus maximus have been burnt away by flaming hot metal, but Jesus! Cover it up, sister! My pastor always talks about modesty as a virtue, and if I may be frank, I think that she was just trying to be a little promiscuous. Every time she’d drop a banana, she’d bend over, pick it up, shriek in pain, grab her tailbone, have some blood seep through her pants, and start to cry. What a drama queen. Anyway, as she continued to work, I took a much needed break and gazed of into the distance. Considering the fact that we started in Florida and ended up in Arizona, it was pretty remarkable that you could still see the plume of smoke rising from the fire just over the horizon. It’s like the entire state was on fire, which I suppose wasn’t all that surprising to me, since it usually is. I looked at the large grey phoenix rising in the sky, and wondered if Ron was up there. I hope I won’t go to hell, since I didn’t really stop to go back and get him. Although he was already dead, so I don’t think that counts. My thoughts were interrupted when I heard a massive “Ka-Twing!” followed by a large crash and an ear-piercing screech. The car had collapsed. I saw some blood coming out from under the car, mixed with banana juice. Guess Hans must not have been completely dead yet. Whoops.

    So alas, Gladys and I couldn’t get the T-shirts in the end. We rode off into the sunset (in the back of a police cruiser), munching the scrumptious bananas we salvaged from the car. They tasted like victory. Which was actually kind of gross, because I think that mine might’ve had some cat blood on it. Anyway, after the trial and our probable prison stay, we’re giving it another try! Here’s hoping to a minimum sentence of 25 years!

    Thank you for your inspiration, and may you find only the ripest bananas in your Basket!

    Stay yellow!

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