So has anyone else tried out this new Christmas shopping shit? Who's the douchebag that came up with this idea anyway? I actually found myself at the mall today.
Now I go to the mall about once a year, less if at all possible, and every time I'm dim enough to venture within I'm immediately reminded as to why I only go to the mall once a year. I've been to the mall twice this year. No . . . I'm not pleased.
The trouble is, that there's few places on the planet that I fit in less than at the mall. I'm the kind of guy that can go to a rodeo, a biker rally, a country concert, a rock concert, any kind of a racing event involving any type of powered equipment, a trap shoot, you name it and make myself right at home. But the mall? There ain't no Abercrombie and Fitch on this sumbitch.
Imagine if you will, a grumpy old bastard in a dirty black Carhartt coat (yes, I earned the right to wear Carhartt, no fashion statement here), camo ball cap emblazoned with the logo of the trucking company of your choice, work boots, jeans that look older than most of the mall's typical patronage, a camo T-Shirt, and a really bad attitude, at the mall, in a futile attempt to get in, find what I want, and get out. At least all of the other guys that looked equally as unenthused to be there as I was were being towed along by their wives, I was by myself and therefore woefully without an excuse. Have you ever realized that malls are purpose built to thwart the efforts of people who want to just get in, get what they want, and get out? At every turn is some other schmuck attempting to interest you in something that you never knew you needed until you blindly wandered into the mall.
No, I don't need a cellphone with a camera and an MP3 player built in for $399.95 on a 50 year service contract. My current cell phone is a useless piece of shit and I do need a new one, but that doesn't mean that I'm a moron put on this earth to boost your commissions income you ignorant fuck.
No, I don't need my picture taken and digitally superimposed next to some scrawny assed little beach bunny in a bikini. My coat would look out of place on a beach anyway and she probably wouldn't like the way it smells, even if she isn't real which is probably for the best since if she was real my wife would likely track her down and kick a mudhole in her skinny little ass and stomp it dry. She tends to frown on other chicks sniffing my Carhartt. Ya'll got any pictures of farm gals in that there computer?
No, I don't need a giant pretzel with a teeny tiny little thimble of some kind of radioactive cheese sauce that's likely been around long enough for its half life to expire. No, I don't need some floofy assed coffee drink to wash it down with either. I like my coffee just like I like my women: strong and bitter. And you thought I was gonna say hot and black didn't you?
I can't even go into Hot Topic and find anything cool anymore. Well, except for the chick with the tattoos and the hot pink and black striped hair that works there, she was kind of cool.
I ran screaming from the mall headed for someplace hopefully less populated, yeah I'm a dumb fucker. With squealing tires and cloud of diesel smoke I headed for ~insert favorite overpopulated huge assed box store of your choice~ only to find that it too was not designed for antisocial old goats like myself, at least not at this time of the year anyway. I managed to find a couple of the things that I was looking for, and hopefully the wife takes into account just how much I hate shopping and therefore isn't disappointed when all she gets from me for Christmas is a stale, half eaten pretzel and a thimble full of green haired radioactive cheese sauce. I tried alright, what the hell do you want from me? No, of course that isn't a hot pink hair on my coat, you must be imagining things.
One more observation before I go. Who, pray tell, is the mindless dipshit that came up with the idea of having greeters at the door passing pleasantries even to folks like myself who would obviously rather be left alone? It was bad enough when Wal-Mart was the only place that had them. Back then I figured what the hell? Gives some old retired duffer something to do and keeps his ass out of traffic, big deal. Said old duffer would have been a lot smarter to head straight to the sporting goods section, pick out some fishing gear, and run screaming like a frightened little school girl being chased by well hung pedophile sodomite demons from that awful place in my opinion instead of filling out a job application, but that's just my take on the situation. Give a man a fish and he'll eat for day then get a job at Wal-Mart, teach a man to fish and he'll get a Cabella's catalog, an ice auger, and a walleye boat and never go to Wal-Mart again.
If anyone happens to see me working at Wal-Mart after I retire, please, please do me a favor and shoot my sorry ass. Be merciful, since if you ever see me working at that shit hole it means that I've likely already sold all of my guns for grocery money and therefore am incapable of ending my suffering myself. Thank you in advance for your compassion.
Now, every place I go has greeters accosting me at the door and gleefully exclaiming "WELCOME TO ~insert favorite big box store here~!". As if either they, or I for that matter, are actually happy to be there. You'd think that they actually believe that it's a good idea to give people fake assed greetings as they come in the store or something. What the hell? Most of them aren't even old retired duffers, hell, they're not even cute young chicks, they're these metro looking guys in their mid twenties with perfectly coiffed hair and well trimmed fingernails that don't even have any dirt under them. What are these idiots thinking? Is this little wuss supposed to make me feel welcome? Am I supposed to look at this douchebag and think "I must be in the right place"? Am I supposed to have any reaction to this guy whatsoever except to give him that "say one more word or take a single step toward me and I'll give you a power wedgie just like your mom does every night when you get home from work" look? Hell no.
Either get some old duffer with a genuine smile and nothing better to do out there, or some drop dead little hottie with a pretty face and perky little boobies that might actually have a prayer of cheering me up and put little girlie boy back in the fucking warehouse where he belongs. Let the little peckerhead heave heavy boxes around for a year or two then maybe he'll grow some hair on his nuts and be able to actually relate to a guy like me. There's probably already some hot looking pink haired goth chick with a nose ring and a barbed wire tattoo around her neck back there unloading trucks with a forklift that'd kick his peachy little ass if he got in her way though, so maybe that's why he's working the door. Maybe I should start sneaking into the stores through the freight entrance, I tend to fit in better with the folks on the dock anyway.
Now if you'll all excuse me I must go put my head in the toilet and flush repeatedly until Christmas is over.