Tom Sandoval’s “Villain Era” Merch Is Selling Out, Proving We’re All Just Garbage People Who Love Trash
Look, I’m not saying we should all just lie down and accept that society is a dumpster fire, but when Tom Sandoval—the guy who cheated on his pregnant girlfriend with her best friend and then wore a feather boa to apologize—starts selling out merchandise from his self-proclaimed “Villain Era,” you have to ask yourself: are we the baddies?
For those of you who have somehow avoided the cultural cesspool that is *Vanderpump Rules*, let me catch you up. Tom Sandoval, a 40-year-old man who reportedly still thinks fedoras are cool, had a long-term relationship with Ariana Madix. Then, in a plot twist that shocked absolutely no one with half a brain, it was revealed he was having a multi-month affair with Rachel “Raquel” Leviss, who was also his girlfriend’s best friend. The scandal, dubbed “Scandoval” by the internet’s finest terminally online detectives, dominated pop culture for months. It was the only thing my mom, my coworker, and my weed dealer could agree on.
Now, months later, Sandoval has decided to monetize his infamy. He launched a line of merch featuring his face, the phrase “Villain Era,” and other cringe-inducing graphics. And guess what? It’s selling out. Like, actually selling out. The guy who probably still has a MySpace account is now a capitalist success story.
Let me be clear: I am not defending Tom Sandoval. The man is a walking red flag, a human wrecking ball with a spray tan and questionable hair extensions. But I also understand why people are buying his merch. It’s not because they admire him. It’s because we live in a world where being the villain is more profitable than being the hero. And honestly? We’re all just along for the ride.
Think about it. When was the last time you watched a movie or a show where the good guy was the most interesting character? The Joker is more compelling than Batman. Walter White was a monster by the end of *Breaking Bad*, but we couldn’t look away. Even in reality TV, the villains are the ones who get the screen time, the endorsement deals, and apparently, the sold-out merch.
Sandoval isn’t the first to cash in on being the bad guy. Remember when everyone bought “Team Jacob” or “Team Edward” shirts? That was just Twilight’s version of choosing your toxic side. What about the “I’m a Mess” aesthetic that dominated Instagram for years? We romanticize dysfunction because it’s easier to laugh at than to fix. And now, Tom Sandoval is just the latest example of a man who figured out that if you can’t be good, you might as well be famous.
But here’s where it gets really unhinged: the merch itself is objectively terrible. The designs look like they were made by a middle schooler who just discovered Photoshop. One shirt features a cartoon of Sandoval’s face with the caption “I’m the villain, honey,” which is the kind of energy you’d expect from someone who still unironically uses the phrase “YOLO.” Another hoodie has the words “Tom Sandoval: A Cautionary Tale” in a font that screams “I bought this at a gas station.”
And yet, people are paying real American dollars for this. The hats are going for $35. A tote bag that looks like it was screen-printed in someone’s garage is $30. The man is literally printing money from his own moral bankruptcy.
Some will argue that buying this merch is a form of ironic consumption, a way to signal to others that you are in on the joke. But let’s be real: if you’re wearing a shirt that says “Villain Era” in public, you are not signaling irony. You are signaling that you have too much disposable income and not enough self-respect. You are the person who shows up to a funeral in a clown nose and expects everyone to laugh.
But maybe I’m being too harsh. Maybe we all need a villain era. The economy is in shambles, the planet is on fire, and we’re all just trying to survive until the next season of *The Bachelor*. Maybe wearing a shirt that says “I’m the villain” is just a way of saying, “Yeah, I’m part of the problem. So what? At least I’m not Tom Sandoval.”
Or maybe we’re all just garbage people who love trash. I mean, I’m writing this article, aren’t I? I’m contributing to the discourse. I’m giving Sandoval attention. I’m part of the problem. And honestly? I don’t even care.
The real question is: what happens when the villain era ends? Because it will. Sandoval will eventually fade back into obscurity, or he’ll get a podcast and a crypto sponsorship and become the kind of guy you see on a reality show reunion and think, “Oh yeah, that guy existed.” But the merch will live on. It’ll end up in thrift stores, sold to people who have no idea who Tom Sandoval is, just another weird shirt with a dude’s face on it.
So go ahead, buy the shirt. Wear it to the bar. Post it on Instagram. Get the likes. Feel the temporary dopamine hit. But just remember: you are now part of the machine that keeps people like Tom Sandoval relevant. And if that doesn’t keep you up at night, you’re probably already wearing his merch.
**NTA** (Not the Asshole) for buying it, though. Because honestly? We’re all just trying to survive this hellscape. And if a $35 hat makes you feel something, even if it’s just secondhand embarrassment, who am I to judge?
Final Thoughts
After following this saga from the seedy margins of reality TV into the broader cultural discourse, it’s clear that Tom Sandoval’s downfall was less about a single affair and more about the Hollywood pathology of mistaking attention for respect. What makes his arc so telling is not just the hypocrisy of a man who built a brand on “integrity” while orchestrating a betrayal, but how the public’s appetite for his punishment reveals our own messy relationship with redemption—we want the fall, but we’re never sure what to do with the man left standing in the rubble. Ultimately, Sandoval serves as a cautionary tale: in the algorithm of fame, infamy is just another currency, and the only real sin is being bad at performing your own remorse.