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Editorial note: This publication and Quirky Cotton Collective share an owner. This is not an independent review.

Read the shirt before you read the slogan. The artwork on the Let’s Root For Each Other And Watch Each Other Grow Garden shirt arranges four smiling root vegetables — carrot, radish, beet, and onion — with their roots visible in soil, and wraps the sentence LET’S ROOT FOR EACH OTHER AND WATCH EACH OTHER GROW around them. The words are not a caption floating above a picture. They form the border. The vegetables sit inside the sentence the way the roots sit inside the dirt. That layout is the whole argument, and it is worth taking seriously for a minute.

Most slogan shirts put the joke in one place and the decoration in another. This one makes the pun structural. Root is doing double duty: the vegetable kind, drawn literally as the pale threads under each smiling face, and the encouragement kind, the thing you say to a teammate before a hard week. The design does not choose between them. It uses the literal roots to make the figurative rooting look like the same act. That is a better piece of visual thinking than the average gift-shop pun, and it is also where the trouble starts.

Two meanings of rooting, and only one of them is free

When you root for someone, you are offering support without a stated return. When a plant roots, it is taking something from the soil and converting it into growth. The shirt collapses those two verbs into one word and one image, and the collapse is charming right up until you notice that the second meaning has a cost attached. Roots do not grow in a vacuum. They grow because something is being consumed.

I do not think the design is being cynical. The four faces are smiling, the colors are warm, and the tone is closer to a seed packet than a performance review. But the sentence has a second clause, and the second clause is the one that does the work: and watch each other grow. That is not a promise of support. It is a promise of observation. The shirt asks you to root for your people and then to keep watching the results. In a garden, that is just what a gardener does. In an office, it is a slightly different sentence wearing the same clothes.

The border is the message

Look at how the text is set. The words run around the outside of the vegetable cluster, which means the sentence encloses the plants rather than sitting above them like a headline. The roots are drawn downward, into the soil line, and the lettering follows the same roughly circular path. Nothing in the composition escapes the frame. The vegetables are inside the slogan, and the slogan is inside the shirt.

That is a useful thing to notice if you spend your working life reading diagrams. A block diagram tells you what is inside the boundary and what is outside it. This design puts the boundary around the whole promise. The support and the growth are not two separate events with a handoff in between; they are drawn as one enclosed system. Whether that is comforting or claustrophobic depends entirely on who is holding the pen.

My reading — and this is interpretation, not a claim about the artist’s intent — is that the enclosure is the honest part. Mutual support is not a transaction you complete and walk away from. It is a loop you stay inside. The shirt is not selling a one-time favor. It is describing a standing arrangement, and standing arrangements have terms.

What the shirt does not say

Here is where I would push back on the slogan as a piece of workplace language. It says let’s, which is inclusive and voluntary, and then it says watch each other grow, which is an expectation. Those two registers do not quite match. Let’s is the grammar of a suggestion. Watch is the grammar of a duty. The sentence starts as an invitation and ends as a monitoring plan.

None of that makes the shirt a bad object. It makes it a revealing one. The best slogans are the ones you can argue with, and this one has a seam you can put a thumbnail into. If you wear it to a team event, you are wearing a small diagram of the difference between encouragement and surveillance, and the people who notice will notice. The people who do not notice will just think the carrot is cute. Both reactions are available, and the design supports both.

Why the root vegetables are the right cast

The choice of carrot, radish, beet, and onion is not arbitrary. These are all crops where the edible part is the root, which means the drawing has to show the part you normally do not see. A tomato shirt would have been a picture of a fruit. This is a picture of what happens underground. The design is committed to the hidden half of the plant, and that commitment is what makes the pun land.

It also gives the artwork a natural diagram quality. Four specimens, each with a distinct root shape, arranged with their soil line visible. If you have ever looked at a botanical plate or a cross-section in a manual, the visual grammar will be familiar. The smiling faces are the only concession to cartooning. Strip those away and you have a small field guide. Keep them and you have something you can wear to a barbecue without explaining yourself.

I would not overclaim the horticulture. The roots are stylized, the soil is implied rather than rendered, and the four vegetables are chosen for recognizability rather than botanical accuracy. But the design understands that a root vegetable is interesting precisely because half of it is out of sight, and it builds the joke on that fact rather than around it.

The difference between a slogan and a usable promise

This is the part I keep coming back to, because it applies well beyond a t-shirt. A slogan is a sentence that sounds good in isolation. A usable promise is a sentence that survives contact with a bad week. Let’s root for each other is a slogan. And watch each other grow is where it starts to become a promise, and promises need terms.

What would the terms be? If I root for you, do I get to comment on your growth? If I watch you grow, what happens when you plateau? The shirt does not answer, and it does not have to. It is a piece of clothing, not a management framework. But the fact that the question is legible in the design is a sign that the design is doing more than filling a rectangle with words.

For technical readers in particular, there is a familiar shape here. It is the shape of a specification that states an outcome without stating the acceptance criteria. Everyone agrees growth is good. Nobody agrees on what counts as growth, who measures it, or what happens to the people who root for each other and then get reorganized. The shirt is cheerfully silent on all of that, which is either its charm or its limitation, depending on the meeting you are about to walk into.

How to wear it without turning it into a performance metric

My practical suggestion is to treat the shirt as an off-duty object rather than a team-building prop. It works best when the mutual-support reading is the loud one and the growth-watching reading is a quiet joke in the background. Worn to a garden center, a weekend cookout, or a seed swap, the pun is doing exactly what it was built to do. Worn to a quarterly review, it becomes a slide, and slides have a way of turning into targets.

If you do wear it to work, the move is to let the vegetables carry the message and not narrate the slogan. The carrot is smiling. The beet is smiling. The onion, against all botanical odds, is smiling. That is the part people respond to. The sentence around them is a good sentence, but it is a sentence with a second clause, and the second clause is the one that will get quoted back at you.

Verdict

As a piece of visual design, this is a stronger object than the pun alone would suggest. The border composition, the four root specimens, and the decision to show the underground half of each plant all reinforce the double meaning of root instead of just decorating it. The shirt has an argument, and the argument is that support and growth are the same enclosed system. I think that argument is worth wearing and worth arguing with.

As a piece of workplace language, it is a slogan with a seam. The let’s and the watch do not quite belong to the same sentence, and that mismatch is the most interesting thing about it. A shirt that invites you to root for each other and then quietly asks you to monitor the results is not a bad shirt. It is a shirt that has read the room. Whether you want to be the person wearing that reading is a separate question, and the design is honest enough to leave it open.

The artwork is a stack of two messages. On top, a white rounded banner with a small bell icon reads, in plain sentence case: There is motion at your front door. Below it, inside a circular frame, is a green-tinted view of an orange tabby pressed absurdly close to a doorbell camera lens — wide eyes, porch siding and lights behind it. That is the whole design. No punchline caption, no second line of dialogue, no arrow pointing at the cat. The joke is carried entirely by the collision between the flat, procedural language of a security alert and the specific, ridiculous thing that triggered it.

I keep coming back to the wording. There is motion at your front door. Not someone is at your door. Not a visitor. Motion. It is the language of a sensor that has been told to report a threshold crossing and nothing more. The banner is doing exactly what it was configured to do, and the cat is doing exactly what a cat does, and the gap between those two facts is the entire shirt. You can read it as a joke about pets, but the sharper reading is a joke about systems that report events without context — and about how often the human on the other end has to supply the meaning.

That is a familiar shape of problem for anyone who spends their day reading logs, schematics, or boardview files. A rail drops out and the power-good signal goes low; the machine tells you something happened, and you spend the next hour working out what. The notification is not wrong. It is just radically under-specified. The shirt puts that experience on a porch and gives it whiskers.

What the design actually shows, and what it doesn’t

Stick to what is visible. The banner is white with rounded corners and a bell glyph at the left. The text is dark, set in a clean sans-serif, sentence case, ending in a period. The circular inset below is tinted green — the night-vision cast that consumer doorbell cameras produce — and inside it an orange tabby fills most of the frame, close enough that the lens is clearly being inspected rather than observed from a polite distance. Behind the cat: horizontal siding and what look like porch lights. The composition is a screenshot, or a drawing that imitates one, and it is presented without a caption.

What the design does not show is any instruction. There is no tap to view, no dismiss, no record. The banner reports; it does not advise. That omission is what makes the image funny rather than merely cute. A real alert would push you toward an action. This one just leaves you holding the phone, looking at a cat, and deciding for yourself whether the situation warrants getting up.

The difference between a slogan and a usable message

There is a useful distinction buried in this design, and it has nothing to do with cats. A slogan tells you what something is. A usable message tells you what to do next. There is motion at your front door is a slogan in alert clothing: it is accurate, it is terse, and it hands the entire decision back to you. Most of the bad notifications in my life share that property. They are technically true and operationally useless.

The shirt works because it stages that failure at the smallest possible scale. The system did its job. The sensor fired. The banner rendered. And the result is a wide-eyed tabby and a human who now has to figure out whether this is a delivery, a raccoon, or the neighbor’s cat using the porch as a staging ground. The humor is not that the alert is wrong. The humor is that the alert is right and still tells you almost nothing.

I would argue that is why the design holds up better than a caption would. Add a punchline and you have a gag. Leave the banner bare and you have a small diagram of a real problem: the moment when a monitoring system reports an event and the operator has to reconstruct the context. Anyone who has stared at a POST card, a charging-controller fault, or a fan-tach reading that says something is spinning without saying at the right speed will recognize the shape of it.

Why the cat has to be that close

The framing matters. A cat on a doormat at a respectful distance would be a different shirt — softer, more sentimental, closer to a greeting card. This cat is pressed against the lens, which is what cats actually do to doorbell cameras, and the effect is to make the sensor’s report look even more inadequate. The system detected motion. What it failed to convey was a face, at point-blank range, investigating the hardware. The green tint and the circular crop do the rest: they say this is a camera feed, not a photograph, and they put you in the position of the person squinting at a phone at 11 p.m.

I read the green cast as a deliberate visual cue rather than a literal claim about any specific camera model. It is the shorthand everyone recognizes from consumer security footage. The design is not documenting a real porch or a real product; it is borrowing the visual grammar of one to set up the joke. That is worth saying plainly, because the shirt is not evidence of anything about doorbell cameras, pets, or home security. It is a drawing of a notification and a cat, and its argument is about the gap between the two.

An off-duty object for people who read diagrams

This is the kind of shirt I would wear to a bench, not to a client meeting. It reads as an in-joke for people who spend their time translating terse system messages into actual decisions. The There Is Motion At Your Front Door shirt is a standard t-shirt from Quirky Cotton Collective, and the design is exactly the banner-and-cat composition described above — no additional text, no hidden second joke. If you are the person who gets tagged to explain what the alert means, the shirt is a reasonably precise summary of the job.

What I like about it as an object is that it resists over-explaining. The best diagram jokes trust the reader to close the loop. This one does. It gives you the sensor output and the sensor’s blind spot in the same frame, and it lets you supply the missing line yourself. That is a more disciplined piece of design than most novelty shirts manage, and it is why the image stays with you after the first laugh.

Verdict

As a piece of visual argument, the shirt is tight: two messages, one gap, no caption needed. As a wearable, it is a low-stakes off-duty item for people who recognize the difference between a notification and an answer. I would not call it a security statement or a pet tribute; it is a small, well-built joke about under-specified alerts, and it earns its place on that basis alone. If you have ever been the human on the other end of a message that said something happened and nothing else, the design will read correctly the first time.

Editorial note: This publication and Quirky Cotton Collective share an owner.

The native garment preview shows four characters and a period: meh. Lowercase, bold, white, set large on a dark shirt. No illustration, no secondary slogan, no animal mascot. The period is doing more work than the letters. It is not a question mark, not an exclamation point, not an ellipsis trailing off into possibility. It is a full stop that ends the sentence before anyone can add to it.

That is the whole design, and it is worth taking seriously as a piece of visual communication. Most slogan shirts over-explain. They stack a joke on a joke, add a cartoon, underline the punchline. This one trusts a single word to carry the entire message, and the typography has to do the emotional labor that the missing illustration would otherwise perform. The weight of the letters is heavy. The scale is loud. The word is a shrug. That contradiction is the point.

I keep thinking about this in the context of work culture, because the shirt reads like a boundary marker that has given up on being polite about the boundary. In a repair shop, the equivalent is the sign taped to a bench that says do not touch without a please. In a team chat, it is the reply that is one word long and arrives three hours late. The shirt is not hostile. It is just done explaining itself.

What the lettering actually does

Look at the period again. In typography, a period after a single word can read as finality or as exhaustion. Here it reads as both. The word meh already carries a dismissive connotation in casual English, but the period removes the upward inflection that would make it playful. Without the period, meh could be a question. With it, meh is a verdict. The design is not asking you to agree. It is informing you that the conversation is over.

The lowercase choice matters too. All-caps MEH. would read as aggressive, a shout. Lowercase meh. reads as tired. The bold weight keeps it from disappearing, but the lowercase keeps it from picking a fight. It is the visual equivalent of someone saying I have no strong feelings about this while clearly having strong feelings about being asked.

I would not claim this is a sophisticated semiotic statement. It is a t-shirt. But the design is more deliberate than it first appears, and that is worth noting in a category where most shirts are content to be loud without being precise.

The introvert framing is doing something specific

The retail title includes the words introvert and dry humor, and I want to be careful here. The shirt itself does not say introvert. It says meh. The framing is retail language, not printed text. But the connection is not arbitrary. Introversion, as it is commonly discussed in work settings, is often about energy management rather than shyness. The shirt reads like a low-energy response to a high-energy demand. It is the visual equivalent of declining a meeting invite without writing a paragraph about why.

That is a useful distinction for anyone who works on a bench or in a ticket queue. The job requires focus, and focus requires protecting your attention from interruptions that do not need it. A shirt that says meh. is not a personality test. It is a small, wearable reminder that not every request deserves a full sentence.

Why the period is the most important character

I keep coming back to the period because it is the only piece of punctuation on the shirt, and it changes the entire tone. Remove it and the design becomes a meme fragment, open-ended and ironic. Keep it and the design becomes a statement of closure. The period is the difference between meh as a mood and meh as a decision.

In technical writing, we talk about the difference between a comment and a commit message. A comment is provisional. A commit message is final. The period on this shirt is a commit message. It says the decision has been made, the branch is closed, and there is no further discussion scheduled.

That is a useful thing to have on a shirt if you spend your days troubleshooting problems that other people created and then handed to you with no context. The shirt does not fix anything. It just sets an expectation.

The object itself

The shirt is sold by Quirky Cotton Collective under the title Meh Funny Sarcastic Saying Introvert Dry Humor. The listing is a standard t-shirt, and the design is the large bold lowercase meh. lettering described above. If you want to see the current listing, it is here: Meh Funny Sarcastic Saying Introvert Dry Humor.

I am not going to tell you it is soft, or that it fits well, or that it survived forty washes. I have not worn it. What I can tell you is that the design is legible at a distance, which is the only functional requirement of a slogan shirt. The contrast between the white letters and the dark background is high, and the letterforms are simple enough to read across a room. That is not nothing.

The difference between a slogan and a usable promise

Most work-culture shirts make a promise. Hustle. Teamwork. Rise and grind. Those shirts are aspirational, and they are also exhausting, because they ask the wearer to perform enthusiasm they may not feel. The meh. shirt makes a different kind of promise. It promises nothing. It is a refusal dressed up as a design, and that refusal is more honest than most corporate slogans.

I do not think this shirt will change your life. I do not think it will improve your team’s communication. But I do think it is a well-executed piece of typography that understands something about the way people actually talk to each other at work: sometimes the most useful thing you can say is a single word with a period after it.

Editorial note: This publication and Quirky Cotton Collective share an owner.

Start with the drawing, because the drawing is the argument. On a dark ground, white capitals — I HAD POTENTIAL — sit above a white curved ramp that descends from an upper-left ledge to a lower-right flat. At the top of the ramp, a dashed empty circle marks where a ball used to be. At the bottom, a solid white ball rests on the flat. The ramp is curved, not a straight diagonal. That curve matters more than the slogan does.

Most joke shirts are typographic. They put a sentence on a torso and let the sentence do all the work. This one is diagrammatic: it asks you to read a before-and-after in a single frame. The dashed circle is the ghost of the ball at the top. The solid ball is the ball at the bottom. The curve is the path between them. The words supply the caption, but the picture supplies the physics — or at least the shape of physics, which is all a shirt can honestly supply.

Here is the useful argument: the shirt is not really about wasted talent. It is about the difference between potential energy and kinetic energy, and the quiet joke is that the ball at the bottom has already spent its potential. It is not lazy. It is not a failure. It has converted. The dashed circle at the top is the version of the ball that had height and stored energy and nowhere to go but down the ramp. The solid ball at the bottom is the version that did the going. If you read the diagram literally, the shirt is not a confession of squandered promise. It is a diagram of a completed transfer.

That reading is an interpretation, not a physics claim. I am not asserting that the designer intended a lesson in conservative forces, and I am not asserting that the shirt demonstrates any measurable result. What I can say is what the artwork shows: a dashed empty circle at the upper ledge, a solid ball at the lower flat, and a curved ramp between them. The rest is the reader’s work, which is where shirt jokes either earn their keep or don’t.

The phrase I had potential is doing something trickier than it looks. In ordinary speech, it is a past-tense regret: I was promising once, and now I am not. But the diagram puts the regret in the wrong tense. The ball at the bottom is not less than the ball at the top; it is the same ball, relocated. The dashed circle is the one that no longer exists. So the shirt’s self-description — I had potential — is technically true of the dashed circle and technically false of the solid one. The solid ball has kinetic energy. It has motion. It has, in the plainest sense, done something.

That is why the curved ramp is better than a straight diagonal would have been. A straight diagonal is a slide: one direction, one speed, no ambiguity. A curve implies acceleration, a changing slope, a path that is not the shortest distance between two points. It also looks more like a real ramp and less like a geometry diagram. The curve gives the eye something to follow, and following it is the whole joke. You start at the dashed circle, you trace the arc, you land on the solid ball, and you realize the punchline is a trajectory.

For technical readers, there is a second layer that has nothing to do with physics and everything to do with work culture. Potential is one of those words that gets used in performance reviews and team retrospectives and hiring loops until it stops meaning anything. It is a promise with no delivery date. The shirt takes that word and gives it a diagram, which is a way of asking: what would it even look like if the potential were realized? The answer the artwork offers is unglamorous. The ball ends up on a flat ledge. It is not launched into orbit. It is not celebrated. It is just there, having converted.

That is a more honest cartoon of most careers than the inspirational version. The dashed circle is the person you were supposed to become. The solid ball is the person who actually showed up, did the work, and ended up on a lower ledge with a different kind of energy. The shirt does not say that is better. It says that is what happened. The sarcasm in the retail title is doing real work: the joke is not that you failed, it is that the diagram refuses to flatter either state.

If you want the object itself, the I Had Potential shirt is listed under the Quirky Cotton Collective brand. The design is minimal — white artwork on a dark ground, no color accents, no extra text — which means the readability depends entirely on contrast between the print and the garment. On a white shirt, the diagram would be nearly invisible; the retail image shows the artwork against a dark ground, which is the version where the white ramp and ball actually read. That is a practical observation about the artwork, not a claim about how it wears.

The minimalist execution is the right call for this joke. A busier design would explain the pun. This one lets the dashed circle and the solid ball do the explaining, and the words stay out of the way. The all-caps I HAD POTENTIAL is flat and declarative, which is the correct tone for a caption that is technically a lie about the object it labels. The shirt is not shouting. It is stating a condition and letting the diagram contradict it.

What makes the design worth writing about is that it respects the reader enough to leave the conclusion unstated. It does not say and now I am kinetic. It does not say energy is conserved. It shows a ball that has moved and a ghost that has not, and it trusts you to notice that the ghost is the one with the potential and the ball is the one with the story. That is a better joke than a slogan, and it is a better diagram than most shirts manage.

Editorial note: This publication and Quirky Cotton Collective share an owner.

The first thing you notice is the triangle. A yellow caution triangle, the kind that on a bench means hot surface or high voltage, sits above or beside the words NOT FRIENDLY DO NOT TOUCH, and next to it is a hand with a slash through it. The lettering is warning-sign lettering: blocky, declarative, built to be read at a glance from across a room. The whole composition is a piece of industrial safety language that has been repurposed to describe a person.

That repurposing is the entire argument of the shirt, and it is worth taking seriously for a minute, because the design is doing something more specific than introvert joke. It is borrowing the grammar of hazard communication and applying it to social availability. The caution triangle does not mean I am dangerous. It means this surface has a condition you should know about before you interact with it. The crossed-out hand does not mean I will hurt you. It means contact is not the intended use. Read together, the shirt is not a threat. It is a label.

What the artwork actually says

Stick to what is printed. The design is the words NOT FRIENDLY DO NOT TOUCH in warning-sign lettering, a yellow caution triangle, and a crossed-out hand symbol. That is the observed artwork. Everything else is interpretation, and I want to keep the two separate, because the temptation with a shirt like this is to over-read it into a whole personality or a whole generation.

My reading: the design works because it uses a visual system that already has rules. Safety signage is one of the few graphic languages most people can parse without training. A triangle means caution. A slash through a symbol means prohibited. The shirt does not have to explain itself, because the grammar is already loaded. It just swaps the noun. Instead of hot or moving parts, the hazard is a person who would rather not be approached right now.

That is a sharper joke than a plain introvert slogan, because it is not asking for sympathy. It is issuing a specification.

The difference between a slogan and a usable promise

Here is where the design gets interesting to me as someone who spends a lot of time reading labels that are supposed to mean something. A slogan is decorative. A usable promise is a statement you can act on. The best safety labels are usable promises: they tell you what the condition is, what not to do, and what to do instead. The worst ones are decorative: a vague icon, a color with no legend, a warning that nobody can translate into behavior.

This shirt sits right on the line. NOT FRIENDLY is a condition. DO NOT TOUCH is an instruction. The crossed-out hand is the icon. The triangle is the severity marker. As a piece of signage, it is actually fairly complete. As a piece of social communication, it is deliberately incomplete, because it does not tell you what to do. It only tells you what not to do. That is the joke, and it is also the limitation. A real warning sign usually offers an alternative path. This one just closes the door and walks away.

I do not think that is a flaw. I think it is the point. The shirt is not trying to be a customer-service policy. It is trying to be a boundary with a punchline.

Why the caution triangle is the right container

If the same words were set in a plain sans-serif with no triangle and no slash, the shirt would read as hostile. The triangle changes the tone. It signals that the message is informational rather than aggressive. It frames the wearer as a labeled object rather than an angry one. That is a small design decision with a large effect on how the shirt lands.

The yellow matters too. Caution yellow is one of the few colors that reads as attention without reading as emergency. Red would push it toward danger. Yellow keeps it in the register of heads up. The design is not shouting. It is posting a notice.

I would not claim the shirt is a masterclass in semiotics. It is a t-shirt. But the choice to build it out of safety-sign components rather than out of, say, a grumpy cartoon or a sarcastic caption is what makes it more than a novelty. It gives the joke a structure.

The boundary as an object

There is a real appeal here for people who spend their working lives in environments where terse messages are the norm. If you have ever written a commit message, a ticket title, or a one-line comment in a config file, you know the value of saying the necessary thing and stopping. NOT FRIENDLY DO NOT TOUCH is that kind of message. It is not rude. It is efficient. It assumes the reader can handle a direct statement.

The shirt is available as a standard t-shirt from Quirky Cotton Collective, and you can find the listing here: Not Friendly Do Not Touch Funny Warning Sign Introvert. I am not going to pretend I have worn it, tested it, or fielded questions about it in public. What I can say is that the design is legible, the concept is coherent, and the warning-sign framing does most of the work.

Editorial note: This publication and Quirky Cotton Collective share an owner.

What the shirt is not

It is not a diagnosis. It is not a statement about social anxiety, introversion as a clinical category, or anyone’s actual capacity for connection. It is a piece of printed clothing that uses a familiar visual system to make a blunt point about personal space. The moment you start treating it as a manifesto, you have over-read it.

It is also not a substitute for saying the thing out loud. A shirt can carry a message, but it cannot negotiate. If the goal is actually to be left alone, the shirt is a hint, not a barrier. If the goal is to make a joke about wanting to be left alone, the shirt is well built for that.

The verdict

As a design object, the not friendly do not touch shirt works because it does not try to do too much. It takes one visual grammar, applies it to one social condition, and stops. The caution triangle, the crossed-out hand, and the block lettering are all doing specific jobs, and none of them are decorative filler. The joke is legible from across a room, which is exactly what a warning sign is supposed to achieve.

Would I wear it to a client site? No. Would I wear it to a parts counter where I already know everyone and want to be left to read a schematic in peace? That is a more reasonable use case. The shirt is a boundary marker, and boundary markers are most useful when the people around you already understand the language. In a room full of technicians, a caution triangle is not a mystery. It is a familiar shape with a new payload.

That is the whole trick, and it is a good one.