...on target

...or when the hell am i ever gonna talk about target again and use this headline?

you know, suburbia fascinates the hell out of the bastard. now to be fair, i don't see alot of suburban neighborhoods outside of my own city but long island, (and yes smart guy, i know that queens is part of long island so please go to hell right about.......now) is damn fascinating. yesterday, the bastard had to replace his painted on pants yesterday and he had to return a pair. you know....fat ass and all that. i also agree to pick up a few things for the mother who i will refer to as "gimpy" for a little bit. i pick up a few odds and ends and the whole vibe of target has changed. it seemed like a novel little big box store and all that but the effect has sort of worn off and now i want to hit someone in the mouth when they jokingly say "tar-jay" in their worst french ever. OH GOD, you should make ironic jokes about having to live in nassau county shiteyes, not because you're in a big box store that the boy from the mailroom who came here from missouri to live in williamsburg wants to be ironic! please just shut up and buy your fare, quietly, and go home you jerk. you're wasting air as it is. please do it elsewhere so i forget that you live on this rock with me.

anyway, i'm on line with gimpy's stuff and there is this family in fron of me and the daughters are complaining about something in their rocawear brand jackets and mom says,"you think elementary school is tough...pause...pause...well you ain't seen nothing yet". you poor dear, you must be so tired or your kids have really sucked the life out of you. you need a whiskey sour. as "sucked out" is bagging her stuff, a mother behind me concedes to her daughter's wish for a soda out of the cold case even though they have soda at home. mind you, they have a starbucks in the place now and i wanted a cup of coffee and i went home and made one. kudos to me. oh, no kudos to me? then you go to hell. you go to hell and you die! anyway, this whole thing happens in the expanse of a minute from the beginning of this paragraph until now (actual time elapse) and drink lady pipes up with, "is there a problem here?" and walks off line. the receipt pops out and the cashier hands it to the lady in front of me with the light gone out in her eyes. i look at gladys (cashier, she gets to have her name. being a cashier is a demoralizing job) and gladys looks at me and we both smirk the smirk of absurdity and i say, "yes there's a problem, you're ass is on fire." had you going there for a minute, didn't i?

—the bastard