Screw the Perfect People, Fuck They All Look The Same

I enter a mall about 3-4 times a year. Once for my yearly re-supply of socks and underwear. Another for an adjustment in warm clothes. Once for summer clothes. And then there's x-mas, which I usually manage to do all online but still end up suffering (albeit minimally) through the idiocy that is the last minute x-mas shopper maze.

I've gotten older though, as one is wont to do, and there is a new day which requires a certain need to go to the mall. To shop. In lieu of spoiling the surprise, let's just say it involves severely over-priced yellowish shiny objects that women and fucked-in-the-head rich guys covet.

If there was no one in my way, I wouldn't mind. But throughout the retail filled monetary disaster there is a sub-culture of our society that is growing faster than the funk in my son's trash can:

The old woman who's had some work done, then covers it up with too much makeup and perfume.

Let's call them "monsters." It is obvious why.

You're not fooling anybody. When you get old you gain weight and turn ugly. Your parents and anyone who has ever existed has told us that would happen. So what's the fucking deal? You're giving me and my kids nightmares with your tribal mask, and all those plastics and chemicals are filling the air with...taste. Air shouldn't taste!

And your clothes don't help. Wearing dark, baggy clothes and glittering jewelry on your hands doesn't draw attention from the fact that your elbows are sagging. In fact, dark clothes make it worse because we all know you're just trying to hide your shame. Keep your shames for the bedroom. Guys like that. They don't like it when you make yourself look uglier.

And so it happened today. After...shudder...shopping, I was confronted with several of the monsters in their desperate plea to take my money after checking out their make-you-look-like-a-whore products. Miraculously, I didn't buy anything other than the product I was intent on buying before I entered the complex and was happily not suffering through the sensation-fuck that is the modern retail experience. I bought it from an overly sarcastic, obvious loser (who earned my love after admitting he's just landed an easy commission since his plastic co-worker was out getting him lunch). I attest my win as a result of having enough moral fortitude to not buy anything from people that look like crack-whores, or saggy mannequins.

So if you're thinking you need work done or are already spending more than 3 minutes putting on makeup every day, do this instead:

Go home, take a shower, tell your husband(s) he's fat & ugly too, cry about getting old, laugh about it, then get on with your horrible, pathetic lives. Stop eating so much, get some exercise, and fucking grow up before your kids get hurt (assuming you haven't done enough damage to them with your insecurities already).

You can then get a real job that, you know, does something good for society and helps people.

Either way, get the fuck out of public and into something less horrendous.

I'll have my baseball bat ready in case you need some more work done. Just call. I'm available anytime.