by James MacLaren
A Lesson On Shopping
Fat Pasty Buttholes, 2001, Inside My Store
Alright, why don’t they teach this one in school? Shopping 101. As in “How to
What’s the matter with all those bitches out there who think that they can enter
a store, trash the merchandise, and then blithely exit?
Women spare no invective when it comes to giving guys a full ration of shit when
it comes to slovenliness. “Wash the dishes. Do the laundry. Clean that thing,
would you?” And all the rest of it. Guys have put up with this shit for
Guess what guys? When the bitches are away from you in the safe confines of the
clothing department, they revert to some kind of atavistic life form that
snarls, chews, and shits its way across the landscape.
Extraordinary planning and work is involved in organizing, displaying, and
retailing women’s clothing, wherever you might find it.
So why do women just walk into an apparel display area and think they can just
grab something off the rack, give it a perfunctory sniff, and then toss it on
the FLOOR and remark to their girly friends they would prefer to see it in
What the fuck’s up with that one, bitches?
I’m standing right there next to you, attempting to restore size and color order
to a rack of bathing suits and goddamned if you don’t (while elbowing me out of
the way to examine some damn thing or other) just pick something off the rack,
give a three-second glance and then just TOSS the motherfucker on the ground or
just shove it ANYWHERE on the rack!
Looky here you daffy cunts, if you’re so interested in being able to find that
“just right” outfit on the rack, howcum you are completely unable to return said
rack item to some semblance of order? A size three junior does NOT belong with
the size 24 missy’s, right? Are you TOO stupid to comprehend that if you (or one
of your sisters who visited the place a little bit before you) completely mangle
the place, then it just might be a TEENSY bit harder to find what you’re looking
for in its designated section, when it’s been dropped like a turd halfway across
And god forbid that some broad had come into the store and trashed the place
ahead of you. Snarls. Snide remarks about the “trashiness” of the place, and god
knows what else will fall from the hateful curl on your lips even as you make the
place even MORE disorganized while searching for something that will camouflage
your fat hips from some lawyer you’re trolling for.
Even worse, you’ll look down at an item recently tossed on the floor, wrinkle
your bulbous nose, and then just WALK RIGHT ACROSS IT, looking for something to
make your ugly body look better. What the hell’s up with that one? If you’re too
damn lazy to return something to a rack, couldn’t you at least have the good
grace to refrain from stomping it under your ridiculous platform sandals? I
guess not. Sigh.
None of what you do makes the least little bit of sense. You’re trying to lie to
some man or other by hiding yourself in some kind of ghillie suit that you think
he won’t be able to see your bloated thighs through. Or, if you’re a cutie teeny
bopper, you’re trying to lie to some man about how sexual you are in a skimpy
bathing suit even though you’d rather fuck a homeless scumbucket before taking
your clothes off for the mope you’re tying to manipulate.
You give guys hell about clutter even as you create more chaos than an atomic
bomb at the clothing department. You are bogus from top to bottom.
Guys, the secret’s out. The bitches are just as sloppy as you are, even after
you’ve had a case of cheap beer. Sloppier even.
Next time any of them give you the least little bit of shit over keeping the
place organized, show them the door.