Ever notice how it's the little things in life that amuse us so much? More to the point, ever notice how it's the silly little idiocies in life that amuse us more than anything else? Well, this is not as much ''the little blog that could'' as it is ''the blog that enjoys going up the down escalator in your local mall.'' Will it have anything of real importance? No, probably not. But enjoy the ride never the less!

 
Dead Nowhere Day

Last night was spent involuntarily purging the contents of my stomach, and lack thereof after the seventh or eighth time. Today has seen me sleeping and slightly feverish in an attempt to get rid of the virus responsible. I've always prided myself on having a fantastic immune system that can fend off the lesser bugs that would take down others. The inherent downside: the bugs that do take me down are large and thoroughly unpleasant.

Today's Lesson: no more bean dip & nachos after 11p.m.


posted by Phillip at 5:56 PM

 
The Opposite Of Product Placement

Recently, products have been arriving at our store that are of a questionable nature. Certainly I’m not one to jump on the Puritan bandwagon we’re seeing in the entertainment world as of late, where almost anything to do with sex has been banished and relegated to late nights, or the HBO/Showcase domain (and the first alarmist to cry out “Won’t someone please think of the children!” will hear me reply, “I don’t want to, since I’ve been reading some rather disturbing articles about Grade 7 kids giving each other blowjobs, and that’s a mental image I can do without thinking of.” And I really wish I was making that up)-

But anyhoo, while I’m no Puritan by any stretch of the imagination, I must confess that I am perplexed as to what sort of crack the fashion designers were on when they created some of the purses we’ve been sent for the spring season. In the forefront of my mind is what has been called either the “cleavage-purse” or “boob bag”. Oddly enough, the females were the ones who coined the “boob bag.”

Why, you ask? Well, were you to place the purse and a set of cleavage next to each other, you’d be forced to agree that yes, the resemblance is uncanny. Picture, if you will, a long rectangular purse with rounded ends. Now colour it flesh-tone pink. Now take one side and give it two side-pockets. Round, healthy B-cup side-pockets. Now put a zipper (unzipped, at that) between these two side-pockets. This zipper serves no function aside from, to go with the not-so-subtle innuendo here, titillating aesthetics. But when you look at the purse, the zipper makes it look as if the top of someone’s shirt or jacket has been partially unzipped, allowing you to get a better look at vinyl bosoms.

By now some of you are no doubt giggling or laughing at this concept, and some of you are probably also frowning. But the glorious WFT-ness of the cleavage-purse has yet to end, for there is the crowning glory: on each of the bosom-looking side-pockets is a zipper with a ring for a pull handle. Yes, if you take a step back from this purse, it looks like it has nipple rings.

I am boggled. Much boggling is being had at my expense.

Granted, for all its silly designs, the cleavage-purse is better to look at than the next entry to the “fashion designers on crack” archives. These purses can only be marketed to young, prepubescent girls. There is no one else I can think of who would be so gullible as to buy something this ridiculously ugly.

Allow me to describe not the shape, not the form, but the colour. When I was first shown this purse and asked what sort of colour I thought it was, my first response was, “vomit-inducing.” This purse is a healthy shade of Pepto-Bismol pink…provided the Pepto-Bismol was given a radioactive, neon tint to it.

There is this inherent fear I hold now, that these radiantly ugly purses may not sell be stuck in our store for months on end. This is eclipsed by an even greater fear: that we might actually sell them. A designer creating something so epically belligerent to even my lack of fashion sense is one thing; people thinking this product is cool and trendy, and forking over money so they can parade it around (much to the nausea of the general public, I imagine) is another thing. The latter terrifies me.

Baby pink is already making a comeback in the world of fashionable colours. Electric puke pink seems to be trying to ride on those coattails. With any luck, it’ll be trodden underfoot, and give me something a little less harsh on the eyes to rant about.

At the very least, there is some optimism shining through amidst these fashion acts of stupidity. For example, I recently found our store’s mascot! Sure, it’s a balloon animal-a blue poodle dog, to be exact-but it’s better than nothing.

Interestingly enough, I procured the balloon poodle on a dare from a co-worker one boring Saturday morning. There was a small display down the mall corridor that day advertising for sort of mutual fund, and to generate some good vibes the ladies there were doing up balloon animals and giving them away to kids. Upon receiving the dare, I strolled over to this booth, struck up a conversation, watched them render an animal out of a balloon, and since I was so sincere and cute, they gave me a poodle.

I’m amazed to see the balloon poodle still surviving. Sure he’s not looking as inflated as he used to, but it’s always a fun reminder that it never hurts to ask (though sometimes it’s the answer you get that turns out to be painful).

Not to mention, in a fit of boredom, I also too aforementioned co-worker’s pink sash and tied it around my forehead with the knot right by my ear, allowing the ends to dangle down over my shoulder and chest. A few cries of “Fabulous!” later, and suddenly I was no longer a mere store employee. I was the Not-So-Ambiguously Gay Ass.Man.!

(For those of you panicking, Ass.Man. is a rather incriminating shortened form of Assistant Manager.)

Ah, the memories. Ah, the joys of finding ways to pass the boredom by. Ah, the sight of customers freezing dead in their tracks upon seeing me, and backpeddle their way out of the store.


Today’s Lesson: no matter how generations they can now spawn, a Tamagotchi will never replace the balloon animal as the much-beloved virtual pet of choice. (Though a pet rock might give the balloon animal a run for its money.)


posted by Phillip at 6:56 AM

 
I Sense A Theme Here (or, "don't you think of anything else?!")

Sadly, it's been much too long since the last little bit of nowhere manifested itself, and in the meantime many a small, irreverent and ultimately irrelevant anecdote has also manifested. Alas, there is not time yet to explain to you all the mysterious wonders of such things as the Boob-bag and what colour could be best described as "vomit-inducing."

However, there is enough time to share with you all one more thing you probably are goin to roll your eyes and quote one part or the other of the opening title to this entry. Recently, as Mel & I went on yet another excursion out to the local Chapters bookstore (which is always an ordeal, since we either come out bookless and crying about it; or with a lot of books and no money and we're crying about that too), we discovered that they had some boardgames on for 50% off.

I can only presume they were Valentine's Day-themed board games, given the nature and thematics. Love, sex and the verbage involving both of those words tends to harken to the whole slapping-women-and-plants-with-goat-hide tradition of Valentine's. As I bought an interesting book for Mel about psychological theories behind love, chemical pheromones and Maslov's Hierarchy of Needs. Mel, on the other hand, bought one of the boardgames: Sex Drive.

Sex Drive sounds like one of those racy siblings to Dirty Minds, where you dissolve into giggles over the innuendo and watching good friends and teammates/opponents boggle over various sexual-oriented things. Sex Drive, however, is like Jeopardy, if Jeopardy had categories all about sex and gameplay was akin to Trivial Pursuit. There is fun to be had, and it is very educational, but I found that more often than not I found myself thinking, "Damn, this game is about sex, and my knowledge is based around perversions thereof! Why can't the two cross paths!"

Or else I'm just sore because Mel cordially handed my ass to me on a silver platter. As she walked away with her 6th "pie" (out of a possible 8), I was stuck on trying to get my first damned question answered right. I couldn't even move elsewhere or anywhere on the board until I had that first right answer. Gyaaaaaa....

All in all, Sex Drive does have its moments, but for the most part you'll be educated instead of entertained. Just look at me and the terrifying truth behind Today's Lesson: after discovering what part of the male anatomy "meatus" refers to, I never ever want to read that in a story, be it fiction, fanfiction or a lemon.



posted by Phillip at 12:04 PM

 
Maybe We're Getting A Little Too Personal Here....

Poor Mel is not feeling altogether wonderful today. In fact, she's feeling downright out of sorts, bloated and...

(I've just turned around and asked her how else she might describe her current state, to which I just got what could best be described as 'a glare that would melt the fridge'. I've also subsequently been forbidden to eat any of her cookies.)

...and crampy and sick to her stomach. In short, she's PMSing.

Yes indeed, this is one of those little feminine moments men would as soon stay far away from. Roughly 2-3 time zones, give or take a continent. It's not because we're insensitive. It really has nothing to do with the fact that we have never gone through the same thing. It more has to do with the simple fact that we must always listen to women grumbling and growling about it, and somehow finding the fault for this with us.

And in a machoistic move that will no doubt seal my fate, it's not our fault they have an extra X chromosome. Hell, guys are always held at fault for everything in life, and all because we possess that dreaded Y chromosome. So it seems only fair for us that some of the fault be shared.

And Mel has just informed me that yes, it IS our fault that women have the extra X chromosome. Basic Mendellian genetic principles have betrayed me! You may just want to forget about that last paragraph in light of this.

But getting back to PMS. It's remarkable how a subject rarely broached between couples early on, if not deemed downright unspeakable and unnamable, becomes something that must be dealt with by the time they're either common-law or married. I'm smugly pleased to say that the whole concept is not as unnerving as I once feared it might be.

Happily this is mostly due to how Mel handles it. Namely she feels sick, and tends to have the look of one of those sad, sick little teddy bears at the Stuffed Animal clinic kids imagine during playtime. Your heart goes out to them, and you just want to cuddle them in your arms and think positive thoughts that will make the pain all go away.

In contrast, Mel's told me that the rest of her family handles PMS in the more angry, violent, "Didn't I see you on the Jerry Springer brawl yesterday?" way. I'm so happy Mel got the recessive gene for this. And I've openly admitted to Mel that if she handled it the way her mother and sisters did, I'd gladly avoid her "Mel kill!" state by working an opening to closing shift at work.

To which Mel replied, "Whatever happened to that whole 'in sickness and health' part of our vows?"

I answered, "Hey, I'm all for the sickness and health part. But PMS does not count as sickness. That's a whole other thing."

It was right about here that Mel indignantly crossed her arms over her chest and flat-out told me, "Next time we renew our vows, I'm adding that little clause to it."

So if anyone's attending our renewal of vows some 25 years from now, think back to this little bit of nowhere and see whether or not I have to say, "In sickness and in health, and when you're PMSing, for richer and for poorer...."

Today's Lesson: it IS our fault, even on the genetic level.


posted by Phillip at 7:26 PM

 
You've Got Male

It's Valentine's Day: whose severed heart did you present to your significant other to show them your love? Or if you have an unsignificant other, whose severed liver did you present to them? Bear in mind that, according to many old religions, the liver was considered to be one of the centres for the human will or soul. So the liver is very much a viable secondary gift, in a pinch.

But for those of you grumbling about being single on such a glorious day being milked with both hands like the cash cow of love it is, here's something to consider: the ancient Romans had a very simple solution for you. Though it may not be so simple if the woman you snag is not as amicable with the idea as you are.

Once again, history repeats itself. Think about those reality TV shows of today, like The Bachelor or Mr. Personality or Married By America. Inventive? Ingenius? Nope. Those wacky ancient Romans had the network executives and thinktanks beat by roughly eighteen hundred to two thousand years.

How, you ask? Well, on the day of the Lupercalia festival (remember the last little bit of nowhere? Slapping women and plants with goat hide? Very good.), as the legends go, the Romans would also have what could be construed as a lottery. Later on after the running of the goat hides, all the young women in the city would place their names in a big urn.

No, I don't know how big.

Anyhoo, you have all these names of eligible women sitting in this urn. The eligible bachelors in turn would then each choose a name out of the urn. And what of the lucky winners from that draw? Well, the eligible guy would be paired for the year with his chosen woman. Often these matches would end in marriage.

Note the use of the word 'often'. So if your name happened to get drawn by Leon the pig farmer, you might not be so cheery about spending the rest of year with him, let alone the rest of your life.

So to those of you who are decrying this day as cruel and unusual to singles everywhere; to those of you , consider this: alternatively, you could wake up February 15th, freshly slapped by strips of goat's hide and sleeping next to a complete stranger who drew your name in a marriage lottery the night before.

Come to think of it, this could very well describe the mornings after that some single people experience after getting absolutely smashed at a bar on Valentine's Day. I guess some things never do change as the centuries go by....

Today's Lesson: a piggie on the bookshelf is worth a dozen roses and a box of chocolates.


posted by Phillip at 5:32 PM

 
It's All About The Love (But Mostly The Sex)

Valentine's Day is upon us. Where else in the world can we celebrate a day named after a martyr who was killed for defying a Roman Emperor by giving people inspid greetings cards that only show how much we panicked at the last minute, wilting flowers that will more than anything remind them of the fleeting transience of life, and candy that they will probably blame for making them look and/or feel fat from eating a week later?

Mel would like to add that that was a very long sentence.

I can only cackle with glee at knowing how, despite its ridiculous length, it conforms to all the rules of English grammar and thusly renders it near bulletproof from any English teacher's criticism. Ha, take that grammar!

And not surprisingly, Valentine's Day was more than likely another attempt to Christianize the Roman Lupercalia festival taking place on that day. Lupercalia was meant to celebrate purification and fertility. So in light of the whole "love" concept behind Valentine's Day, the fertility part seems amusingly/disturbingly appropriate. I wonder if most Christians have realized this.

Probably not. If you happen to meet one tomorrow, feel free to remind them on my behalf. Though you may not want to do the authentic Lupercalia thing, and run through the streets with strips of goat's hide that were dipped in sacrificial blood, and slap all the women and plants you happened to encounter on the way.

The police would probably frown severely on that. And I'm pretty sure that the women you just slapped with blood and goat's hide won't feel comforted by your claims that they will now be more fertile this coming year.

The plants might not complain, though.

Today's Lesson: on Valentine's Day, it's all about the sex. Be honest and admit it. But on the other days of the year, it's all about the love (and sex is just a great benefit thereof).




posted by Phillip at 7:49 PM

 
All The Colours Of A Rainbow Brite Doll!

This evening, Mel and I were running some errands at a few stores. It was somewhere close to the shampoo aisles that Mel suddenly noticed something was going horribly awry; that an ominous portense of terrible things to come had manifested itself in our presence, and we were powerless to escape it.

Namely, that the world was suddenly a whole lot pinker than it had been a week ago.

Yes, if you haven't already noticed, Valentine's Day in all its unrequited chocolate-and-greeting-card glory is fast approaching. All in all, it's an important day where we commemorate how the fastest way to any man or woman's heart is through the ribcage. And like all good commercial enterprises, when you've got a cash cow to milk, you might as well squeeze those udders with both hands.

Somehow I don't think this concept will ever make it as a milk commercial for TV.

This got Mel and I talking about the respective seasons and their big-name (holi)days. Let's face it: each holiday has its own unique colour scheme. We symbolically associate the colours with the day, and vice versa. I mention the colours orange and black, and suddenly images of Halloween are conjured up. I ask you what colours come to mind when you think about Christmas, and I get in any order: white, red and green.

And there will no doubt be someone who, when asked about Christmas colours, will respond with, "Oh no, quit trying to avoid the subject and tell me just why you decided to wear a dress to the restaurant."

But I digress...and digest too. Dinner was happy and hearty tonight. (Mel makes a great dip, which seems only appropriate since most people would also add she married one.)

Getting back to the colour schemes of holidays, we arrive upon Valentine's Day. It's hard to miss, what with all the pinks and (especially) shades of red. Should I find it darkly amusing that the colour we use to commemorate a day of love and romance is also typically seen as the carnage colour of fire and blood?

We now must shift and ask about Easter. "What colours come with Easter?" I asked Mel as we traversed down towards the shampoo aisle.

"Purple," came the reply of a young woman who just happened to be passing us by. (Laugh all you want, I didn't make her or her comment up.)

Mel argues that Easter is all pastel-coloured, filled with soft shades of pink, blue, green and yellow. This admittedly confuses me. Easter is generally associated with chocolate if you're atheist, agnostic or just going about your day-to-day life; blood, darkness and light if you're Christian. (Easter is, after all, a predominantly Christian memorial day.)

How pastel ever came into play defies all logic and common sense. I am baffled and confounded by the presence of pastels in the Easter colour scheme. Why pastels? "Who would be so ludicrously deranged as to make pastels the unofficial colours of Easter?" I decried.

To which Mel replied, "Americans."

She's probably right too, but you didn't hear that from me. For that matter, it's probably better that Mel doesn't hear that from me either. She's American, so she can get away with such remarks. I usually earn myself a smack upside the back of the head whenever I pull a verbal stunt like that.

Today's Lesson: spontaneous sex is a great idea, but sometimes it means your food gets cold on you.


posted by Phillip at 8:22 PM

 
It's Like 'Purple Monkey Dishwasher', Only Not...

I've heard a lot of strange if not snicker-inducing nicknames for the male gentials before. But (and I quote the Pron spam on this one) Purple-Headed Yogurt Thrower is a new one. It really does make me wonder if somewhere out there on the Net, there's some sort of generator that takes a lot of random words loaded with sexual innuendo, and just rearranges them in something that makes sense only when you're half-drunk or mostly delusional.

Though this has proven to be the cleverest pron-spam I've seen in a long time. These days, most of them are telling me I don't have to settle for having such a flat chest, and something about horses and the badgers who love them. I'm not asking, I'm not clicking. The last time curiousity took hold, I discovered that there are some orifices you just weren't meant to stick a human head into.

As for clever pron-spam, as oxymoronic as it sounds, I'm starting to think that the spammers are just getting lazy. Colourful analogies for sex are becoming endangered, and ridiculous claims of a sexual nature are being (pardon the phrasing) too blunt & blase to make me laugh. I may not be one to relish the idea of my Inbox being riddled with pron-spam each and every day, but at the rate they're going I think I'll have to finally admit the truth to them: I've faked every click to their site.

In other news of a not so double ententre nature, our store finally got in its new computer system today. I had to show up an hour before anything opened to help set it up, but it's always nice to have a District Manager who's just as equally disgruntled at having to be there far too early to set everything up. I'm actually impressed with the new computer for a few reasons, and the first two I sadly can't take home with me as souvenirs--that being the flatscreen monitor and the Inkjet printer.

What impresses me the most is that using the programs seems to be able to fend off 9 out of 10 idiots. And so far I haven't been that 10th idiot. Though there was that little incident where I pressed a button and the computer cheerfully announced, "You have now armed this system."

I subsequently took my lunch break, and when I returned helped my manager stuff the bodies of the unfortunate customers who came into the store (and thusly into the kill zone) into some of the suitcases in the storeroom that will never see the light of day. Now I know some of you are saying right now, "But you fool! Won't those bodies smell after a few days?"

Ah, but there's the brilliance of my plan, for I have thought ahead! All we have to do is transfer the coffins--er, suitcases out of our store, and ship them to another store. It gets rid of the smell and the problem. And if anyone at the other store complains about finding a corpse inside, we can just say, "Hey! The suitcases came like that to us; we were just following Head Office's orders to send 'em to you guys!"

No doubt a number of you are shaking your heads at either my macabre sense of humour, or my flagrant disregard for the preciousness of human lives. I suppose now this wouldn't be the best time for me to talk about my latest idea: Soilent Weed, where we smoke the dead....

Today's Lesson: restful quiet can be found in the most unexpected of places, in the most unexpected of times, and it never fails to make you feel guilty for having discovered and enjoyed it.


posted by Phillip at 6:36 PM

 
Wahoobidahey?

The world is filled with mystery, with things that don't make sense. There's how they get the caramilk into a Caramilk Bar. There's those people who walk up to you and ask you during a luggage sale, "When is your luggage going to 95% off?" And then there are the manufacturers of handbags, who were either on crack or a very excruciating diet when they created what I affectionately call the Truffle Handbag.

Why? Because it's small, it's long and round, and it's chocolate brown with pink trimmings. It seriously resembles a giant truffle with handles. Gaudy design aside, every time I look at it, I am filled with the urge to go eat something. I wonder if this will join the Akins Diet-Friendly trend that many restaurants are jumping on. Certainly you won't gain a lot of weight as you try to tear a piece off and chew it, but I cannot help but envision the Truffle Handbag bearing the warning: Eating this handbag can be hazardous to your health.

Oh well, in this day and age we have chainsaws with the written caveat Do not attempt to stop chainsaw with hands or genitals, so perhaps the Trufflebag one isn't such a farfetched idea after all.

Though I like the designer's other idea for a similar line of handbag that's just arrived at our store. Handbags with a letter of the alphabet stitched onto them are always popular. Funny how right now, we have handbags and matching wallets sporting the letters S&M, and no others.

Quote of the Day: "Didst thou just tell thy husband to go fucketh himself off? How rude!"


posted by Phillip at 8:26 PM

 
Misery Loves Mondays

I'm starting to understand Garfield the cat's inherent loathing of this day. In fact, the only reason I can really be here around the midnight hour writing this with a cheerful smile on my face is probably because I'm doped up extra strength meds, and chocolate. Now before some of you decry my casual drug usage, might I state that I'd rather take 3-4 Sinutab pills in the last few hours than have the glorious sensation of someone stabbing a knife blade incessantly into the back of my eyeballs.

The screaming headache was only part of the misery that was Monday. Now here me out: as always, I'm one to try and put things into proper perspective. Yes, this Monday could have been a lot worse. I could have had a box of shaved, rabid mongooses (or would it be mongeese?) attacking my face, for example. But even still, this was not a memorable Monday in a good way.

There was the whole stabbing-behind-the-eyes migraine. There was also the fact that I now have an eternal loathing of luggage. Luggage should die of gonorrhoea and rot in hell. The last week has seen me move the entire damned wall of luggage 3 times now. First to check and make sure all the items were tagged. Second time around was to help out the girls stuck behind for Bloody Inventory, since they would have had to remove each individual piece anyways.

I thought after that I was safe. I thought after that there wouldn't be anything else to do with luggage unless a customer asked me about the styles or prices. I don't mind being wrong about things; it's how you learn. But I don't like being wrong about things like that. Third time around, the entire luggage wall had to be reconfigured since it's the start of a new month, and at the start of every new month, Head Office decides that we need to change the luggage display. Knobs...

My spinal column feels like Jello.

And yet...I was able to, for a time, revel in good company. Our manager and our full-timer were also working at the store today, and all three of us were dead tired and crabby thanks to the effort we've been pulling for Bloody Inventory. We were all very caustic all day long, if not borderline psychotic at some points. I was feeling weary and hating it, and yet I've never had a more pleasant if not homocidal conversation with the other employees as we did today.

It's always fun to look your co-worker straight in the eye, and have them agree that, yes, should the next customer walk in and ask a stupid-assed question about the prices for the winterwear, it would be a good idea to rip their tongue out and slap them silly with it. Just goes to show there's a little Marquis de Sade in all of us.

Today's State-The-Obvious Lesson: Misery indeed loves company. It probably also loves Belgian chocolates, long walks on the beach, and Quentin Tarantino movies.


posted by Phillip at 9:19 PM

 
Remembering The Little People

Every now and again the fierce, raging deity known as my Ego must be subjugated ever so slightly (and the weapon of choice more often than not tends to be chocolate cookies and a tummy rub. Go figure.), and I acknowledge the minions--er, peasants--er, fans I may one day happen to acquire.

Today was the 9 year-old son of our store manager, who was hanging around the back strockroom thanks to the evil creature known as Bloody Store Inventory. Now if you must ask, "What's with the bloody part?" then you have obviously never worked retail during a store inventory. Those of you who share in my beleagured sighs (this makes the 3rd inventory I've done, and all 3 have been for different stores) will call a store inventory by that "bloody" part. And given how much hell and hours it's put us through, I'm sure I'm about ready to offer up a sacrifice to some dark fiend just to ensure I don't ever have to do another bloody store inventory again.

Mel adds here that fortunately said sacrifice can't involve her or our Shih-tzu, Shady. Such sacrifices *cough* always require virgins. You can't exactly sacrifice a wife and a snipped puppy now, can you?

So what does the bloody store inventory have to do with hero worship? Well, as Lori was finishing up doing some of the counting for our stockroom, she asked me to record the SKU numbers and totals of a large stack of carry-on suitcases located near the ceiling of the stockroom. Now bear in mind that our large shelving reach from the floor to about four feet shy of the ceiling. This is a ceiling high enough that standing on an 8ft. ladder, even I can't touch it.

So there I am, atop this ladder inspecting the tags on old, dust-ridden luggage. The last stack of tags I need to check are just out of my reach on the ladder. So what do I do? I wind up straddling two different shelving units on opposites sides of a narrow part of the storeroom. I'm more or less a human bridge...and on a Jackass-styled note, had anyone wanted to, they could have passed right under me, punched me in the groin and watched me fall to the cold, cement floor in an "I'll get you, Gadget!" heap.

As I'm doing the bridge-over-troubled-bloody-inventory thing, Lori's son remarks in not-so-subtle awe, "Mom, look what he's doing! That's so cool!" I smirked as I continued to carefully inspect the tags in my perilous position. I had a fan who though my latent skills from gymnastics was cool.

Luckily for me, he wasn't looking when a few seconds later I nearly slipped and castrated myself on the corner of a cardboard box.

Today's Demonstration of Murphy's Law: since everything in the back stockroom of the store was counted for the bloody inventory, nothing could be removed from it. In essence, what was out on the floor, even if it was stuffed for display purposes and the only item of its kind there, we'd have to sell it. Naturally, this was the day that everyone wanted all the ridiculously huge dufflebags that were a) stuffed, and ; b) the only one of its kind out on the store floor.

Three large freakin' garbage bags of crumpled paper and stuffing from today alone can testify to this.




posted by Phillip at 6:55 PM