Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Our Bathroom Smells Like Polo

The bathroom smells like Polo Big Pony number 3. Why? Because it smelled weird in there and Big Pony 3 is absolutely phenomenal that's why.
So this girl came through my line tonight and she's got her friend with her. Her singing friend. Crazy singing friend. Not that this singing friend is bad at what she does, she's actually very good. But singing loudly in the middle of a grocery store makes you look like an attention whore...because chances are if you're singing in the middle of a grocery store, you are an attention whore...case closed. Anyway, singing friend is belting out this Michelle Branch song, adding her own little "ooowoooaah"s and whatevers and it's driving me up a wall so her friend and I start talking about Target. 
We came to the conclusion that we love Target. It's the best. Except that it's kind of a money suck. You can go in there for toothpaste and come out having spent over $75 on other shit you stumbled upon. It's insane. The last time I went to Target, I went in solely for hairspray. I needed two cans of Tresseme 24 Hour Volume hairspray because when I went to Walgreens, like, a week earlier, I was in a hurry and grabbed mousse instead of hairspray. Like what the fuck. So I went into Target just for hairspray. I came out with a new sports bra, lotion, Mio, new mascara, two Arnold Palmers, "50/50", and the first season of "Spartacus". And two cans of Tresseme 24 Hour Volume hairspray. Mission accomplished...and then some.
And singing girl kept singing. She only stopped when my dumb shit bagger who is the definition of "kiss ass with no real social skills" told her that she was a really good singer. And she stopped and said, like she was in no way expecting anyone to even notice her dramatic as fuck jam session with herself, "Oh my gosh, thank you! That is so kind of you!" I wanted to throw up and die.
Moral of the story, that girl's a professional compliments angler, her friend is cooler than she is, and Target is a money sucking paradise of dreams.


And then this other guy came through my line and he totally reminded me of Peter Parker. Like super nerdy Peter Parker. He bought some mothers day cards. And then I thought, what if this is an alternate reality Spiderman-ish guy raised by lesbians? It's a totally doable comic book, guys! Kid is raised in a household that society has deemed "unnatural" or "potentially damaging" and he discovers one day that he has superpowers. He keeps this secret from his moms who just think that he's going through what every young man goes through when he's trying to figure out his life. He drifts further away from them when he moves away to attend Juilliard School where he studies classical piano, cello, and manages to pick up the baritone sax. His powers become impossible to contain, and try as he might, he cannot stop himself from bolting from the concert hall, up the stairs to the roof, and throwing himself off the roof, several stories off the ground below. FEAR NOT! He slings some web lines like a pro and saves himself from imminent doom! When he arrives back at home for Christmas in Lawrence, Kansas, he informs his mothers of what he has become, ashamed that he had kept it a secret from the two people who love him most, and scared of what they might think of him. They hug him and say that there is no power on this earth that could stop them from loving him. He is their son and nothing is going to change the way they feel about him. They all have a good cry and go to church for Christmas Eve mass. The next day, they open presents, prepare and eat a lavish Christmas dinner, and receive a phone call from a girl asking to speak with our hero. He blushes to the shade of a very ripe tomato and his moms laugh at how adorable he's being. The girl from his jazz ensemble just called to wish him a happy holiday and that she hopes he has a good break. He stutters, wishes her the same and a "Merry Christmas", forgetting completely that she's Jewish. Embarrassed beyond all conceivable measure, he violently hangs up the phone and buries himself in the pile of discarded wrapping paper. Our young hero returns to his apartment in New York City where he is shocked to find anti-homosexual graffiti painted across his door. "How has no one taken care of this yet?" is his first thought, as the landlord was here throughout the winter break. His second thought, more of a reaction, was one of anger. Who the hell thought that they could do this and get away with it. That night, he sits up and waits until he sees the shadows of people lingering outside his door. He hears paper tearing, paint cans being shaken, and people muttering. He creeps to the peep hole and sees two young men and a woman. They're tacking things around his door, spray painting more abusive comments, smiling as they do so. He tries not to cry and he tries even harder not to break down the door and wail on the trespassers. The next morning, he drags himself out of bed and goes to clean the walls outside his door. He doesn't look at the hate messages. He can't bring himself to do it. That night, he decides to follow the offenders. He waits outside the building, gets a good look at them as they leave and casually follows them down the cold streets. His mission leads him to an alley where one of the men jumps him and tries to punch his face in. Instead, he finds himself face down in a pile of dirty brown snow-sludge while his cohorts are being beat up and strung up by or hero's webbing. This continues for some time, following anti-gay protestors around, ruining their rallys, exposing their secrets to the media, and when he finally comes out of the closet, so to speak, he claims in front of a thousand cameras that his mission is to protect and fight for the rights of homosexuals across the country and throughout the globe. "No one should be singled out or hated for falling in love" he said, bringing tears to the eyes of his mothers who were watching him on the Channel 7 evening news in Lawrence. That night, their house burned down while they were fast asleep inside. Fueled by grief and white hot rage, our hero begins to take a violent approach to his mission. After he nearly drowns a gay basher, he is overcome by sadness and confusion as to what he is doing. He trudges to the home of his jazz ensemble friend and confesses to her who he really is. She comforts him and understands and promises to help him with anything he needs............ I just lost my massive train of thought. SHIT.
That was so badass though. God, I'm amazing.
True story.
 I saw a girl who looked exactly like Alyson Hannigan. She didn't say much, but she looked like this:
Alyson Hannigan is an absolute gem.
 And I would like to take a minute to discuss dreadlocks. There are good dreadlocks and then there are bad dreadlocks. The bad dreadlocks are the kind that you put the time and effort into creating... and then just let them run wild. They tangle around each other, collect various items, and if they're really naughty, they get all matted up and turn into one, big, flat, nasty, mangey looking mass on the back of your head and you look homeless The good dreadlocks are the ones that you take care of. They maintain individuality, while giving you a very nonchalant kind of look. they look even better if they are pulled back from your face with a scarf, bandana, or big stretchy headband. Dreadlocks that are well kept will love you until you shave them. It sounds like I'm talking about dogs kind of. Think about it.
This train of thought was brought to you by the ridiculously attractive and handsome and tall man who came through my line with a head of wonderfully kept dreadlocks. He had a green stretchy headband and some very nice facial hair. And great teeth. So imagine Thor...with sexy, godlike dreadlocks. Because what other kind of dreadlocks could the god of thunder have?
also...just look at him...Jason Momoa. dayum.
 The cutest Asian thing happened at work today. Has anyone ever said that before? Whatever. I win. So I was having a stressful meltdown because my register was being a doodoo head and Jess morphed over to help me out and she didn't even need to do anything and the problem resolved itself somehow. So I hugged her and finished the transaction for the wonderfully patient Asian guy on the other side of the counter and I thanked him for his patience. He responded with a laugh and said, "She is your lucky star," before walking off. My day got exponentially better. That was so cute.
Hah. Last story about work, I promise. So this girl comes through my line and she's got some enormous eyes. Like giant blue saucer eyes. They're pretty. And kind of terrifying. I said, "Hello. How are you?" "Just amazing, how are you?" she said, 100% sincere and smiley. "I'm pretty good, thanks," say I. Bagger kid asked if she would like her carton of eggs in a separate bag so they don't get crushed. "No, we're good." the girl said with a crazy smile. I thought it was odd. "We're." Who is this "we"? At the end of the transaction, I asked if she wanted her receipt. She grinned and responded with a cheerful, "No thanks, we're good," and leaves. I came to the conclusion that this girl was insane. She has an imaginary friend following her around all day, telling her what to say and do so she can keep up the illusion of being a normal person instead of the murderous psychopath she actually is at her core. That's just the kind of shit you run into at the grocery store where I work.

I've recently discovered Young the Giant for myself. I like them a lot. My Spotify is full of them. Basically, I've been listening to a solid playlist of Young the Giant, Nicki Minaj, Marilyn Manson, and Kylie Minogue. I don't know what the hell that combination's about, but it's working for me and I'm totally cool with it.
You know who's cool? My buddies :)
 

Shit Yeah.














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