You Are Utterly Ridiculous
What do you mean asking me if I work here? Do you think that I enjoy wearing this neon green apron? And if that’s your conclusion, why, then, do you think that I would come into such an establishment, pull all these boxes off the shelves, and start rearranging them?
Jesus Jumped-Up Christ on a Vespa scooter. Look at your hair. Did you look in the mirror this morning and say, “I want to try and look as close to Eraserhead as possible when I leave the house.” Well: mission accomplished.
What kind of jacket is that? There seems to be some sort of fringe on it, but what’s it made of? It looks like a boggling fusion of denim and velveteen. Is that lace? Or just a doily that got stuck to your nauseating trunk? And that color! I can’t really place it: somehow it’s simultaneously bruise-hued and greenish-apricot. I didn’t even think that such a tint could exist within the realm of human vision. Besides: it’s way too small for you. That looks a little crazy, you know? And I don’t mean “crazy” in a wacky good-time fun sense. I mean “crazy” in a having- enough- cats- to- make- the- pharaohs- envious- and- leaving- them- your- inheritence- when- you- die sense.
But let’s not dwell upon your outward appearance. What I’m more concerned with is your behavior, your total lack of societal skills. Did you think that eating an ice cream cone—a soft serve ice cream cone, mind you—like a banshee trying to bite at a dandelion seed is at all what polite people expect to see when they go out into our great civilization? Well, you were wrong.
Plainly stated: You look foolish.
The fact that you seem to have trouble following this conversation leads me, rightly, to assume that you compensate for your lack of intelligence with rage, vulgarity, and violence. You sicken me, you crude, ungulate harridan.
You there, sir! Are you with her? Obviously. Why else would you be wearing an Indiana Pacers 2000 Eastern Conference Champions hooded sweatshirt? I recall waking up this morning and thinking, “Today I’d like to see the most irrelevant thing to my life, my country, and our collective history when I go to open my store.” And here you are, sir, sweatshirt stained dark with your various oils and foodstuffs dropped from your cavernous maw. Again, I judge your garb only in that it undoubtedly reflects the inward bitterness you must have and hold dearly for yourself and for others.
No, no. This is my establishment, “madam,” and I’ll speak to you this way if I choose.
Listen to your insufferable son, wailing at the top of his lungs as if he’d had boiling oil poured on his hindquarters. My God, woman: you make Andrea Yates look like Maria Montessori. I’m not in any way an advocate for government intervention into its citizens’ lives, but I will personally call the White House and have you taken to Alcatraz. I don’t care if it’s not operational any more. That’s where you’re going.
Hitting your child like that is actually quite healthy for him. It will improve him psychologically in the future when he realizes that not only is he a little shit right now, but most likely will continue to be a shit, but on a grander scale, amounting to nothing, and doing more harm than good to himself and the citizens around him as his life ambles inexorably toward failure and, ultimately, death.
Well, either you hit him or let me continue, please. What do you mean, “What right do I have?” This is my candy store! Fine. Get the police. They’ll understand my side of the story once I explain what has transpired in these few brief minutes, believe me.
That blade you brandish doesn’t frighten me! Do you know how many machete-wielding Sandinistas I fought off in the impenetrable jungles of Nicaragua in the late ’70s? Far more than your feeble math skills can tally, I assure you.
That’s right: you get out. And never darken the floor of Phineas T. McFudge’s Sweets & Treats Shoppe again!
Jesus Jumped-Up Christ on a Vespa scooter. Look at your hair. Did you look in the mirror this morning and say, “I want to try and look as close to Eraserhead as possible when I leave the house.” Well: mission accomplished.
What kind of jacket is that? There seems to be some sort of fringe on it, but what’s it made of? It looks like a boggling fusion of denim and velveteen. Is that lace? Or just a doily that got stuck to your nauseating trunk? And that color! I can’t really place it: somehow it’s simultaneously bruise-hued and greenish-apricot. I didn’t even think that such a tint could exist within the realm of human vision. Besides: it’s way too small for you. That looks a little crazy, you know? And I don’t mean “crazy” in a wacky good-time fun sense. I mean “crazy” in a having- enough- cats- to- make- the- pharaohs- envious- and- leaving- them- your- inheritence- when- you- die sense.
But let’s not dwell upon your outward appearance. What I’m more concerned with is your behavior, your total lack of societal skills. Did you think that eating an ice cream cone—a soft serve ice cream cone, mind you—like a banshee trying to bite at a dandelion seed is at all what polite people expect to see when they go out into our great civilization? Well, you were wrong.
Plainly stated: You look foolish.
The fact that you seem to have trouble following this conversation leads me, rightly, to assume that you compensate for your lack of intelligence with rage, vulgarity, and violence. You sicken me, you crude, ungulate harridan.
You there, sir! Are you with her? Obviously. Why else would you be wearing an Indiana Pacers 2000 Eastern Conference Champions hooded sweatshirt? I recall waking up this morning and thinking, “Today I’d like to see the most irrelevant thing to my life, my country, and our collective history when I go to open my store.” And here you are, sir, sweatshirt stained dark with your various oils and foodstuffs dropped from your cavernous maw. Again, I judge your garb only in that it undoubtedly reflects the inward bitterness you must have and hold dearly for yourself and for others.
No, no. This is my establishment, “madam,” and I’ll speak to you this way if I choose.
Listen to your insufferable son, wailing at the top of his lungs as if he’d had boiling oil poured on his hindquarters. My God, woman: you make Andrea Yates look like Maria Montessori. I’m not in any way an advocate for government intervention into its citizens’ lives, but I will personally call the White House and have you taken to Alcatraz. I don’t care if it’s not operational any more. That’s where you’re going.
Hitting your child like that is actually quite healthy for him. It will improve him psychologically in the future when he realizes that not only is he a little shit right now, but most likely will continue to be a shit, but on a grander scale, amounting to nothing, and doing more harm than good to himself and the citizens around him as his life ambles inexorably toward failure and, ultimately, death.
Well, either you hit him or let me continue, please. What do you mean, “What right do I have?” This is my candy store! Fine. Get the police. They’ll understand my side of the story once I explain what has transpired in these few brief minutes, believe me.
That blade you brandish doesn’t frighten me! Do you know how many machete-wielding Sandinistas I fought off in the impenetrable jungles of Nicaragua in the late ’70s? Far more than your feeble math skills can tally, I assure you.
That’s right: you get out. And never darken the floor of Phineas T. McFudge’s Sweets & Treats Shoppe again!
posted by MASchiavo at 1:30 AM
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