Tuesday, December 6, 2011

[31 Holi-Days #6] He Looks Like a Pink Nightmare

The pitfall of doing a daily series is that inspiration is more abundant some days than others.  I spent most of today in job search mode, which is neither inspiring nor Christmas-y.  (Can you believe that you need experience in the field to be considered for the groomer position at Petco?  We're talking about McPets here, not the Westminster Kennel Club.  Fucking ponderous, but I digress).  So, yeah: it's nearing evening, time to post today's bit, and I'm pretty empty.  Don't feel like writing any of the entries on my list of slow-day topics, and also don't really have any great new ideas.  Time to let Google be my friend: search term bad Christmas presents, modified in the last month.

At first, not much: list after list of the usual fruitcake/awful sweater/outmoded technology suspects.  In fact, the whole thing was beginning to look like a blind alley until I clicked "next photo" on my tenth gallery or so and suddenly found myself face to face with this asshole:


Dear residents of Brooklyn: the game is over.  Take your horn-rims, argyle sweaters, ill-fitting collared shirts and Salvation Army turntables and crawl the fuck back home to the suburbs.  None of you will ever be the biggest hipster douchebag on the block now.  Look: you all fought the good fight.  Brought your lunch, did your best, and your parents will be somewhere in the vicinity of proud.  Still, the war is now officially, unequivocally over.  We have a winner, or loser, depending on your perspective.

Seriously: what the fuck is that?!  I realize that I'm f-bombing all over the place in this post, and I also realize that swearing is often considered a poor substitute for wit, but honestly: what other sort of fucking reaction am I supposed to have to something so pathetically fucking stupid?  I mean, really: how did that conversation with his buddies go?

[Dope:] "You know what I'm gonna do?  I'm gonna wear a bunny suit like that kid in A Christmas Story to the Skillet concert.  Then we'll totally get the chicks!"

[Stupid Friend:] "Fuckin' A, Ralphie.   Pass the bong."

At least I hope to god that there was a bong or a keg or a something involved in this plan.  Because if this was a sober decision, then natural selection isn't being nearly fucking selective enough.

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