Whoever said there are no stupid questions needs to be shot
Some nights, they just seem to come out of nowhere.
The two young men who wandered in did not appear to be dissimilar to many of the patrons of the store. Once I'd verified they were not in fact minors, I would have predicted they would have wandered around through the store for about twenty minutes. Perhaps they'd succumb to curiosity and take a very brief tour of the toy section, but most of their time and attention would fall on the movies available. I would have predicted they would either purchase a single very good DVD or conclude their visit with a selection of bargain flicks. It's a very typical format for the type of shopper I loosely place them in.
I was taken in by their mimicry. I had mistakenly given them too much credit. Like some odd parody of some small, vulnerable crab that masks its helplessness by adhering bits of seaweed, shells, or coral to its carapace, these guys hid behind a facade of capability.
The more out-going and confident of the duo approaches the counter with a Playboy in hand, which he promptly lifts so I can get a clear view of the cover.
How in Kali's crimson-stained cleavage can you even formulate such an asinine question let alone utter it without your head exploding like a Vesuvius of puss? This is why your mother's night shift as an after-hours sperm bank drop slot was a bad idea. If a girl is on the cover, she sure as fuck is going to appear inside wearing little more than a smile. I know it's a hard concept to grasp, but try to keep up. It's as if it was their "thing", their "gimmick" as it were to deliver on their implied promise printed on the glossy magazine cover. Here's a tip, rigging your microwave to cook with the door open is not the ground-breaking advance you think it is.
No, she got bored and cold in there, and it was a bit cramped, so she got dressed and went home already.
It was so high above his head he'd need a telescope to notice it. He did take a couple seconds of deep thought and consultation with his buddy to decide I had impugned his intelligence however. Without further comment, he very carefully put the magazine back on the wrong rack and left with his counterpart.
Just because there are two half-wits working in concert, it does not add up to a whole person.
The two young men who wandered in did not appear to be dissimilar to many of the patrons of the store. Once I'd verified they were not in fact minors, I would have predicted they would have wandered around through the store for about twenty minutes. Perhaps they'd succumb to curiosity and take a very brief tour of the toy section, but most of their time and attention would fall on the movies available. I would have predicted they would either purchase a single very good DVD or conclude their visit with a selection of bargain flicks. It's a very typical format for the type of shopper I loosely place them in.
I was taken in by their mimicry. I had mistakenly given them too much credit. Like some odd parody of some small, vulnerable crab that masks its helplessness by adhering bits of seaweed, shells, or coral to its carapace, these guys hid behind a facade of capability.
The more out-going and confident of the duo approaches the counter with a Playboy in hand, which he promptly lifts so I can get a clear view of the cover.
"Do you know if that person is in the magazine?"It's a distinct likelihood.
"So she's like, inside there, naked?"Oh hell fucking no! The contents NEVER correlate to the cover. That could only lead to anarchy and madness if people could formulate some idea of what the hell they were buying. No every bloody page is a complete mystery. It could be a car ad. It could be the answer key to a seventh grade English test. It could be phone listings for Butte, Montana circa 1977. Dear gods, imagine the patent absurdity of knowing ahead of time if one is interested in the product! And then to inquire as to a state of undress? Ludicrous to the point of blasphemy! Playboy containing pictures of naked women?! Perish the thought. Everyone knows that the entire Hefner Empire was founded on people so swaddled in clothing layers that it takes a government think-tank to determine if it's potentially a human at the very core. Determination of gender is the most fanciful of science fiction. How ridiculous of you to even ask.
How in Kali's crimson-stained cleavage can you even formulate such an asinine question let alone utter it without your head exploding like a Vesuvius of puss? This is why your mother's night shift as an after-hours sperm bank drop slot was a bad idea. If a girl is on the cover, she sure as fuck is going to appear inside wearing little more than a smile. I know it's a hard concept to grasp, but try to keep up. It's as if it was their "thing", their "gimmick" as it were to deliver on their implied promise printed on the glossy magazine cover. Here's a tip, rigging your microwave to cook with the door open is not the ground-breaking advance you think it is.
No, she got bored and cold in there, and it was a bit cramped, so she got dressed and went home already.
It was so high above his head he'd need a telescope to notice it. He did take a couple seconds of deep thought and consultation with his buddy to decide I had impugned his intelligence however. Without further comment, he very carefully put the magazine back on the wrong rack and left with his counterpart.
Just because there are two half-wits working in concert, it does not add up to a whole person.
posted by Lanius at 6:23 PM
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