Inconvenience Store
SHOPPING REVIEW:
A Lesson On Shopping
Fat Pasty Buttholes, 2001, Inside My Store
Alright, why don’t they teach this one in school? Shopping 101. As in “How to Shop.”
What’s the matter with all those bitches out there who think that they can enter a store, trash the merchandise, and then blithely exit?
Women spare no invective when it comes to giving guys a full ration of shit when it comes to slovenliness. “Wash the dishes. Do the laundry. Clean that thing, would you?” And all the rest of it. Guys have put up with this shit for millennia.
Guess what guys? When the bitches are away from you in the safe confines of the clothing department, they revert to some kind of atavistic life form that snarls, chews, and shits its way across the landscape.
Extraordinary planning and work is involved in organizing, displaying, and retailing women’s clothing, wherever you might find it.
So why do women just walk into an apparel display area and think they can just grab something off the rack, give it a perfunctory sniff, and then toss it on the FLOOR and remark to their girly friends they would prefer to see it in black?
What the fuck’s up with that one, bitches?
I’m standing right there next to you, attempting to restore size and color order to a rack of bathing suits and goddamned if you don’t (while elbowing me out of the way to examine some damn thing or other) just pick something off the rack, give a three-second glance and then just TOSS the motherfucker on the ground or just shove it ANYWHERE on the rack!
Looky here you daffy cunts, if you’re so interested in being able to find that “just right” outfit on the rack, howcum you are completely unable to return said rack item to some semblance of order? A size three junior does NOT belong with the size 24 missy’s, right? Are you TOO stupid to comprehend that if you (or one of your sisters who visited the place a little bit before you) completely mangle the place, then it just might be a TEENSY bit harder to find what you’re looking for in its designated section, when it’s been dropped like a turd halfway across the store?
And god forbid that some broad had come into the store and trashed the place ahead of you. Snarls. Snide remarks about the “trashiness” of the place, and god knows what else will fall from the hateful curl on your lips even as you make the place even MORE disorganized while searching for something that will camouflage your fat hips from some lawyer you’re trolling for.
Even worse, you’ll look down at an item recently tossed on the floor, wrinkle your bulbous nose, and then just WALK RIGHT ACROSS IT, looking for something to make your ugly body look better. What the hell’s up with that one? If you’re too damn lazy to return something to a rack, couldn’t you at least have the good grace to refrain from stomping it under your ridiculous platform sandals? I guess not. Sigh.
None of what you do makes the least little bit of sense. You’re trying to lie to some man or other by hiding yourself in some kind of ghillie suit that you think he won’t be able to see your bloated thighs through. Or, if you’re a cutie teeny bopper, you’re trying to lie to some man about how sexual you are in a skimpy bathing suit even though you’d rather fuck a homeless scumbucket before taking your clothes off for the mope you’re tying to manipulate.
You give guys hell about clutter even as you create more chaos than an atomic bomb at the clothing department. You are bogus from top to bottom.
Bogus.
Guys, the secret’s out. The bitches are just as sloppy as you are, even after you’ve had a case of cheap beer. Sloppier even.
Next time any of them give you the least little bit of shit over keeping the place organized, show them the door.
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.
