I try to avoid the mall. Not because of some great protest against consumerism or because I think I’m better than mall shoppers, it’s really just that I don’t shop very often.
The last time I visited the mall I made the mistake of walking into a Hollister store, or maybe it was an Abercrombie & Fitch, and thought that I had accidentally walked into a haunted house or possibly that I had a stroke which rendered me blind. Have you been in these stupid pieces of shit? They should hand out fucking night vision goggles at the door because you can’t see a god damn thing! Apparently the easiest way to show that your store is cool(?) is to turn the lights off and watch your confused customers bump into each other like blind mice in a maze. Maybe this is a sign of being “old” but I can’t spend more than zero seconds in one of these dungeons without feeling like I am part of a sadistic experiment.
What’s the appeal of their clothing anyway? Why is everyone so happy to wear a shirt that simply says “Hollister” across the chest? I don’t fucking need to know where you purchased your shitty shirt, I can already guess. Oh, and another thing, not only can you not SEE in these stores, you also can’t BREATHE! I’m not sure if it’s the Axe Effect oozing from every douchebag in the store or if they pump in some mind controlling chemical that turns you into a dcouchebag, but either way you will find yourself crawling in the dark desperately trying to find the door.
You know what I’m talking about right? You go to 7-11 to buy some beef jerky, a 2-liter of Extreme Mountain Dew and the latest issue of Juggs and when the grumpy clerk hands you your change he also hands you 15 receipts, rendering your hands useless. You’ve got the bag of porn in one hand, your open wallet in the other, and now you have to figure out how to hold dollar bills, a bunch of dimes and 40 feet of receipts. The stress builds, because after all this is a convenience store and the fact that you are paralyzed by your inability to handle all this shit at the same time is becoming very inconvenient to the growing line behind you. You panic and your brow begins to sweat. Holy shit, why is this happening to you, WHY? You fall to the floor and cry in the fetal position. Right? At least that’s what I do.
Is it too much to ask for them to hand me my bills first, followed by my coins after the bills are tucked in the wallet and THEN my receipt? Actually, just put the receipt in the bag. Am I alone in my thinking here?
I have always hated American Idol but this season has taken me over the edge. For some reason I keep seeing it every week. Specifically I keep catching this season’s “rocker” Adam Lambert perform, and each time I want to dig my eyes out of my skull and shove them down my ears while smashing my face through the TV. I fucking hate the fuck out of this prancing turd and his eye makeup. I would spend every penny I own (which is like 207 pennies) just to have the chance to kick him in the smooth area where his balls should be.
Music is dead. No, the music industry is dead. Everyone, including supposed indie bands, are so fucking into their look and their image now. Even a band like the Strokes, who pretend to be dirty and disheveled, spend just as much time picking out their outfits as the American Idol douchewads. Fuck everyone, what happened to awesome, ugly, dirty, sweaty bands like the Minutemen or the Replacements?
If this clip of Adam Lambert taking a shit all over Johnny Cash doesn’t make you want to go on a killing spree then you need to kindly punch yourself in your penis and/or vagina.
After working a 16 hour day yesterday (and not writing for this website) I finally let my head hit the pillow for a good night’s sleep. As usual I woke up feeling less-rested than I felt when going to bed. I hate my dreams.
My dreams consistently include 3 major themes: frustration, fear and celebrities. My dreams will often last for what seems like hours and usually end with me waking up feeling terrified, stressed or both. I might spend the night shooting raisins at Corey Haim or maybe I’m driving Miley Cyrus and a vacuum cleaner around the city while she sings “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” Both of these nightmares are real. I also recently had a dream that included a magazine on a table called “Manhole Weekly.”
Last night was a typical dream where I try to accomplish a relatively simple task that ends up becoming complicated and stressful. The short version of last night’s dream is… I went to buy a 12 pack of beer for an engagement party of a girl I worked with 12 years ago. When I arrived I thought it would be funny to call in to the talk radio show they were listening to and make some joke specific to them. I finally got through to the station and was put on hold. In the meantime they had switched the station. I walked into the room they were hanging out in, spilling and trying to gather beer cans the entire time, and tried to find the correct radio station for my ruined joke. In my dream, this was like a 15 minute process. Finally I said fuck it and sat on the couch with Philip Seymour Hoffman who was dressed as a priest. I excitedly told him my band had been chosen to do the soundtrack for a new blockbuster movie called “The Reconstructionist.” Upon hearing this news he became intense and pulled my head onto his lap. He stared at me and said “is that right?” and then his eyes became totally white for about 2 seconds. This might sound dumb but in the dream this was terrifying. I sat up and said “I guess I will just sit up now and shit my pants.” Then I woke up from fear. It took me a good 15 minutes to get over how scared I was.
When did this become OK? When did girls become as lazy as guys? Sweats worn in public are bad enough on a man but on a woman it’s just sad. The kind of sad like when you are talking to someone and they have a booger swinging back and forth in their nose but you can’t say anything, all you can do is stare at it, pity them and then throw up when they walk away.
When a girl wears a sweatsuit in public it says, “I’ve given up on everything that makes me female. I’m pretending to care but obviously don’t.” These girls want the world to know they can no longer be bothered with complicated things like wearing clothes. I feel like the 5 most powerful names in the fashion industry got together and tried to come up with the most anti-fashion thing possible, just to see if they could sell it to the masses. The masses are asses and those asses say “Juicy.”
This is one of those subjects that fills me with so much rage that I’m not convinced I can make it through without punching my computer in the face. It does not help that it’s past midnight and I am tired from drinking.
OK, I know you have seen, or at least heard of, Mtv’s Cribs. Well now they have a new version called “Teen Cribs” that makes me want to dig a hole and bury myself alive. You might think from the title that this program visits the homes of famous teenagers like the Jonas Brothers and shows how awesome they are and how bad you suck. Believe it or not, it’s actually much worse. Teen Cribs goes to the homes of rich families who happen to have teen children. Are you following me? These are just a bunch of random rich asshole teenagers! They are not famous and they have literally achieved nothing more than being lucky enough to fall out of the vagina of a rich woman.
Who the fucking fuck wants to watch some spoiled fuck with unruly hair take you on a tour of their parent’s mansion? No wonder this country is about to implode!
I’m going to attempt to write this while watching “Lost.” That, along with the fact that I really can’t think of anything funny or interesting to say about corporate pants, should result in the worst post I have ever pooed out of my poo hole.
Business casual blah blah blah. The subject is as boring as the clothing. I recently had to buy a bunch of “biz cas” clothes thanks to a freelance project and I’m still upset about it. OH MY GOD, this is so boring. I apologize, I really do. I honestly can’t think of a way to make this less horrible. This is where not being an actual writer poses a big problem for me. I couldn’t write my way out of a pair of pleated Dockers.
