Christmas Rant: Shopping
Like all other dumb-assed American men, I wait until the last possible moment to shop for Christmas. And of course we have to, because we’re all such great and wonderful capitalists that we must prove it to the world by losing our credit-card-carrying minds annually to celebrate Jesus’ birthday. Then again, I’m probably sure that’s what he intended by having his birthday celebrated on the Winter Solstice.
Shopping during non-holiday times alone drives me bat shit crazy unless I’m in Home Depot or a similar venue, or a bookstore. All other locations suck equally. On the subject of ‘location,’ I’ll throw out my first complaint in that shopping somehow inevitably involves a freeway and hours of my life dealing with them. This is because the Army, in it’s camouflaged wisdom, sees fit to not locate its bases adjacent to major metropolitan areas. Probably something to do with ricochets and artillery target practice, but I’m still not entirely convinced. And for those of you who would respond by saying, “Just shop online, Rants, you bonefuck!” I’d answer by showing you the mountain of paperwork generated by cancelling stolen credit numbers that purchased tons of bullshit on QuiBids (Dear Mother Fucker: I will find you and cut your balls off with a plastic spork and then piss on your soul).
Once at the Shopping Zone, the challenge is angling for a parking spot. Normally this time of year I drive straight for the Super Mega Shopping Plaza retaining wall, at the extreme edge of the entire parking lot, the one only five feet from I-70’s roaring traffic, because nobody but pissed off, ranty assholes like me park there. Other than the folks carjacking and car-robbing cars where nobody will possibly notice. I always wear comfortable shoes for the three-mile hike to the MegaMall – not because of my inner lesbian, but because I don’t like painful feet interfering with my lesbian thoughts while I foot-march to the Mall.
Inside the MegaStructure I memorize all the bathroom locations. Then I sketch out a route and set off. Strapped to my leg is a machete, and under my coat (because they’re illegal) is my M1911 .45cal with tank-epic recoil. These are my weapons of choice because they are less obvious than a katana and bow staff. Yes, weapons for defense are required, because it is inevitable that some Christmas item I must – must – buy has made it to the “hot gift” list. This means I’ll be experiencing the equivalent of exiting the shark cage to arrange the floating chum by hand while Jaws circles me. There is no less risk in grabbing for the last “item” remaining in a store than swimming naked with hammerheads while bleeding… and those hammerheads would all be female.
So that is my personal Shark Week every year, in spite of what some cable channel pipes (poops) into my living room. This post will commemorate my successful journey of yesterday after a half-day of work. I have no idea how I maintained a steady and calm demeanor, or how I managed to escape without committing many capital crimes. But I did.
And I have my booty, aaargh.