Wordsmoker

So it’s Christmas Eve and I have to do that thing. You know what thing. That thing. That which is regarded as the most heinous, odious, sacrificial, Pagonistic ritual of all things on Christmas Eve. One that may leave you drained of corpuscle elasticity, depleted of mental dexterity, the bringer on of homicidal thoughts, a true act in self-mutilation, and ultimately the harbinger of lameness so acute it has no determined name to describe its loosening of bowel function sense of impending doom.

I mean, of course, going to the frickin mall.

Oh, yes. It will start in the parking lot and end in a meltdown of moronic proportions where there will surely be cursing, crying, threatening, enacting the will of Jesus, and the high potential for a four-person stab-out in Macy’s.

There are a few key questions one has to ask oneself before engaging in the will of the damned:

1) Why, for the love of all that is holy and non-perishable, is it so Goddamn hot in there?

2) If New York City can create bike lanes on major streets, why does one not exist in the mall for strollers, over-tired children, and the dehydrated husks of formerly moist people who have exceeded their 90 minute mall limit.?

3) What is that smell coming from Quiznos?

4) Who is buying a silk screen painting of Notorious BIG, cell-phone holders obviously made in Uzbekistan, a petrified scorpion imprisoned in a belt-buckle or bolo tie, and framed photographs of neon moving waterfalls with live action sound effects, at any of these kiosks? Who, I ask you?

5) How many accessory stores carrying the same crap headbands, silver chain belts, butterfly barrettes, and skull featured toe rings, does any mall need?

6) Who do I have to fish-gut to get the Auntie Anne’s pretzel recipe so I too can sell $4.00 buttery bread to the losery mass of mall fuckers who line up for this stuff like it was laced with gold or PCP?

All in all I’m expecting the worst.

Pray for me.