After Best Buy, I went to CompUSA. Nothing there but extra-friendly employees who really weirded me out. I bought a pack of paper just so I could fill out the survey and tell the corporate office how amazing these people were. People that friendly, my first thought is always that they’re probably going to sacrifice me to some evil deity. I don’t trust friendly people, because what’s in it for them, you know?
Then it was back to the bridal shop to give them some more money. Once again, I had to deal with a shitpile of spoiled brat kids. But not done yet—they had to take measurements to do the alterations. So back to Best Buy, I guess.
At the bridal shop, there’s a door, then a little tiny foyer, then another door. As I left, I saw that there was some woman blocking the door, yelling at her two kids in that foyer thing. She had two of her friends with her, who squeezed past her and into the store. “Someone’s having a talk with Jesus when they get home,” one of the friends said to me. And then she winked conspiratorially at me! Like I was in on the joke.
I heard this phrase a lot growing up, what with being surrounded by hypocritical Christians through most of my life. When someone says that the kid is going to have a talk with Jesus (or a “close, personal, talk with Jesus,” it sometimes goes), it means that the kid is going to get the shit beat out of him.
I got no problem with kids getting spanked. Kids need to be spanked once in a while. We’re living in a world where even the cut-throat capitalists are hippified into thinking that “time outs” are just as good as an ass-smacking, and I can’t wait to see how all these undisciplined, spoiled shit kids screw up the planet when they grow up. Because I hate humanity, and these little fuckers are going to grow up and probably end it.
But the kind of people who say this shit about a talk with Jesus don’t just spank. In my experience, the talk-with-Jesus people are twisted bastards. You spank a little kid hard enough, they’ll piss their pants, did you know that? It’s not a punch in the face, but it’s still abuse. “Spare the rod, spoil the child.”
I heard that shit all the time growing up. It makes me see red at this point, because just about everyone who uses that Bible quote uses it to justify beating their kids. Not just spank…beat.
“Someone’s having a talk with Jesus when they get home,” and then the wink.
I winked back. “Hurting children is fun,” I said to her. She looked horrified. I shoved open the door, hitting the woman who was screaming at her kids right in the ass, and her silence was golden.
I went back to Best Buy, and the security guy at the door was looking at me rather suspiciously, as it was third time back, and I had yet to actually purchase anything. “She’s at the bridal shop,” I said as I passed him, and he smiled and relaxed.
I saw a fat kid in a pink shirt. The lettering on the shirt said, “Tough guys wear pink.” I disagree with this statement on so many levels that it isn’t even funny.
Call it social conditioning, call it sexist, call it ignorant. Pink is pink, okay? It’s an ugly color to begin with, which is why only women can pull it off. You start dressing guys up in ugly colors, and you know what they look like? They look like ugly guys.
They look like what would happen if Gremlins took over the Barbie factory. They look like idiot douche-bags. I’ve heard arguments that boys can’t like pink because they’re raised to think it’s sissy. I disagree. I think that pink is considered a girl color in the first place because at some point, two guys were standing around, and one put on a pink shirt and went, “Hey, how do I look in this?”
And the other guy, he’s like, “Wow. That…there’s really…it looks like complete shit.”
“It really does, doesn’t it? This is the last time I listen to my girlfriend. I think you were right about her trying to take my balls away, by the way.”
“Yeah, the shirt proves it, I think.”
“It does. It really does.”
Tough guys wear pink. I wanted to shove the little bastard down. Maybe he can wipe away his tears with his tough guy shirt.
I looked at movies and found some I wanted—about six thousand dollars’ worth.
And then I decided to go get some food. Quick stop at McDonalds, and then—because it was on my shopping list, anyways—a bottle of whiskey. Back to the car with my lunch and my evening’s entertainment. I took one bite of my cheeseburger, and my phone rang.
“I’m ready,” my princess said.
Back to the damn bridal shop. She was waiting in line. There were two people in front of her, with two cashiers helping. The line was not moving. Three minutes pass.
At this point, I’m being kind of a dick, because I got that first bite of cheeseburger (a break from the salad and all of that bullshit that I’ve been eating so as to lose a little weight before the wedding), and I’m really hungry for the rest of it. Another three minutes, and I’m not being a dick anymore, but honestly curious about why I’m still standing here.
“This line hasn’t moved,” I say to my princess.
“I can see that.”
“What’s going on?”
“That’s the problem with chick stores—too much talking, not enough action.”
She gives me her you’re-a-complete-idiot-but-I-love-you-anyway smile. “Do you think it’s a good idea to make sexist jokes in here?”
“I don’t really like to think about good and evil,” I say. “That’s a terrible dress over there—that green one? Must be for a bridesmaid, huh?”
“It’s a terrible color—the stains will never come out, you know what I’m saying?”
The cashier looks up at me and I tip her a wink. You wouldn’t believe how fast that chick starts ringing people up after I start talking about reasons why my genitalia is so small.
“Did you see how fast she was trying to get us out of there?” my princess asks as we walk across the parking lot. She’s laughing, instead of pissed off, and I think again about how much I love her.
“All part of my plan.”