Thursday, July 06, 2006

The Mall On Haunted Hill...

The absolute wondrous horror of what was a rare Orange County mall experience for myself is today, losing its luster - so I might as well try to jot down what I can remember -

In Southern California, there are people. A lot of them. All attached to some type of device that transmits IMPORTANT relayed messages to their brain. Sometimes these PEOPLE fill up their tiny seconds with their IMPORTANT blabby-crap and sometimes forget to do things like say, HELLO, THANK YOU, EXCUSE ME, YOU'RE WELCOME, YES, NO, JUNIOR-DON'T-RUN-OUT-INTO TRAFFIC, etc. They also forget to drive faster, slower, at all and usually with any consideration towards the other millions of other dumb-dumby, spinning people driving out on the streets also. Sometimes their cars mirror the slow, congealing drips of mollasses inside their driver's skulls. Sometimes I point at these people while they go about their very important coffee retrieval and goods-purchasing daily sprees. Sometimes I don't point because there are a lot of bigger dinosaurs in this Pangeaic park of mine and I plan on settling into a nice, bubbly tar pit someday. I don't want anybody to fuck with that. I have plans. Rawrrr.

This is getting too long...

I only went to the mall after dinner to make my girlfriend happy. Her mall is my comic book store, but without the fast food smell, pimply teenagers and fat, sweaty men. Actually, both the mall and comic book stores have these type of people, but at least the mall is more spread out.

At the mall:

Clothing and accessories, when I rarely want them - are very easy for me to find. Not because I'm easy to please, but because my actual size in clothing never, ever actually gets bought by real humans beings because nobody is my size. My sizes are everywhere and always knocked down from a high price to a very, very LOW price. I don't know why they make these sizes. Why make clothes that fit drug-addict or tall Ethiopian builds? Or Ethiopian drug-addict builds?

I get bored easily if I'm in a store that doesn't interest me. I can't sit down and be patient. I whine a lot and walk and walk around the perimeter of the usually-a-women's-clothing-store and pretend not to be a gay guy looking at clothes.

I went to an Apple Store for my first time and was completely horrified and amazed at existence of the whole poopy thing. Welcome to the future, Gramps.

The bathrooms looked better than some L.A. clubs than I've been in. Actually, DUH. Nicer than ANY L.A./Hollywood clubs. (this is the part where friends who don't read this snicker because how often do I go to Hollywood or LA LA?)

2b continued after i read this incredible hulk comic...

Ummm..there were security guards on Segways.

Boring now. The End.


Grampa said...

Fuck the future.

liz said...

Clothing is easy (like Sunday morning?) for me to find too. My bum can fill a large salad bowl.

Boz said...

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Bored Housewife said...

Oh, you fucker. Just go ahead and trail off like you weren't on a roll. Damn expired Ritalin prescription.

Also. Malls are evil. Jesus said so. I am the world's best shopper: in, grab, pay, out. Bam. It took me 15 minutes today to leave a restaurant, drive across the street-ish to a store, select, purchase, watch the silent-and-not-very-deadly-unless-you-count-boring cashier box it up for me, and return to said restaurant. Fifteen. And I bought 3 items. True, one was a gift bag, and one was leaning against Pier1's counter, jauntily striking a pose and on the exhale of its virginia slim in a 12-inch cigarette holder saying, "You need me. You knew it before you even saw me. Take me home. Use me." Sultry little slut was right. And now it is piercing the soft earth of my pathetic flower garden, holding a windchime my husband bought for me on his last trip to Texas. No, not his last one, the one before that. do you care? eh, probably not. But I can't seem to blog worth the ribbon it would take if I was typing lately, so what the hell. When I'm on a roll, I'm not stopping.

Unlike SOME people I know.

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