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Inconvenience Store
IDIOCY REVIEW: Container People
Behind Closed Doors, All the Fucking Time, Where the Sun Don't Shine
Will somebody please tell me what the hell's going on with Container People?
Container People.
As in, "Let's go inside the container and close the door behind us."
You know the type. Generally got a pasty soft white look about them. Heavily into clothing, jewelry, make up, whatever. Lotsa times they're also into the money deal. Not necessarily Republicans or anything, but that seems to help, nonetheless.
Outside, the sun is screaming down from a cerulean sky, birds are warbling, beautiful people are strolling by along the strand, and the world is smiling benignly upon all that inhabits it.
"Hey, whatta ya say we go rent a movie?"
And so, from the large fixed container, they briefly pass through the beauty of the world, and as quickly as possible, enter the small mobile container, crank the air, crank the radio, crank the motor, and crank their sorry asses down to the video container.
Quick exit from mobile container, into a different large fixed container.
Meanwhile, down at the shoreline, a gorgeous blonde is giving me the full cleavage shot with a winsome smile, as she doodles her toe in the sand.
Ok.
Exit the large fixed container, video in hand.
Reenter the small mobile container. Be sure to close that door tight behind you, ok?
Back to the first large fixed container.
Quickly jump from the mobile container, back indoors. Close the door and lock the motherfucker.
Place the goddamned video tape inside ITS fucking container and sit down on the expensive couch and watch some kinda bogus Hollywood version of what's going on OUTSIDE, fer chrissakes! Ahh, life is good.
Meanwhile number two, down on the beach, the blonde has twisted her torso in just the right way to give me a nice look at a left nipple, and she's saying, "Why yes, I sure would like a cold beer."
The sun continues to blaze down on all beneath it.
Birds fly by and tiny waves hiss to their deaths upon the wet sand.
Ok.
Stay inside your fucked up container.
Nobody likes you anyway.
A lifetime resident (despite having travelled all over the damn place at one time or another) of Central Florida, James MacLaren took a four-year degree in death thrills riding giant waves on the North Shore back in the 70's. Wound up in the inconvenience store following a lay off from the Cape, where he was involved with the construction of the Space Shuttle launch pads, among other things. Father of best son in the world.
