Friday night faggatronics, and a hidden treasure

Tonight is (was?) Friday. How did I spent the first night of what is supposed to be two days off?

Was I out, banging hotties from ear to ear (don't try to visualize the mechanics of that)? Or pounding shots with famous people?

No. I was at Kohl's. Before you condemn me (rightfully so), I did work for 14 hours on Friday. And when I say "work," I don't mean pretending to scratch my crotch when I'm really masturbating (to pictures of chicks doing yoga) in the stealthiest manner possible, which is my usual MO.

No, I was working. I was out of the office doing shit, and in the office doing shit.

So I was tired. Plus, since my life is so awesome, I had to wake up early Saturday to cover shit.

So I finished doing my thang (not to be confused with "thing"), covering a hoops tournament, and then I decided to head over to Kohl's.

I needed a few sweaters, and possibly some bulge-enhancing slacks.

So I get to Kohl's, only to find it awash in the scum of humanity. Why are these people at Kohl's on a Friday night? I suck at life, so what's their excuse?

I'm browsing, looking for some cool stuff, and I see a rack of shirts from afar that look interesting, so I meander over.

As I get closer, I see that they are the pointy-collared, vertically striped shirts with sparkly silver stripes, the kind favored by people I despise. So, I move on, thinking to myself, "Only a faggot would wear these shirts."

"Excuse me?"

I turn around to see a smooth latin man, holding up one of the very same shirts I had just condemned, measuring to see if the sleeves would cover his slender arm.

Apparently I did that thing again. You know, that thing where you think something to yourself, but in reality you muttered it under your breath. That thing where you think you muttered it under your breath, but in reality you said it in a normal conversation voice. That thing.

"What do you mean only a faggot would wear this shirt, ese? I like this shirt? You calling me a faggot, mang?" (I might have subconsciously remembered the 'ese' and the 'mang.' Memory is a funny thing.

Me: "Uhhh....look, I didn't call you a faggot. But that's the kind of shirts that faggots or douchebags buy. And to be honest, you don't look intelligent enough to be a douchebag."

Now that he had been served with the cold, cool hand of logic, he realized that I was right, and he skulked away. Either that or spit at me, I forget these things.

Near-confrontations aside, I found a sweater or two, as well as some pants to try on, so I headed to the fitting room.

Let me tell you something about myself. I like to make things better for the little guy. In this case, the little guy was the poor fella who is stuck monitoring the fitting room cameras.

You might be thinking, "wait a minute, this guy gets to spy on chicks changing into stuff ona regular basis."

If this were Nordstrom's, Macy's, hell, even Sears, that might be true.

Have you ever been to a Kohl's? In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, "it's a leper colony down there."

I like to do my part to liven up their day.

When I try on clothes, especially pants, I like to make sure that they can handle the rigors of my daily routine.

So I'm in the dressing room, practicing my hip thrusts and other staples of my life, just to make sure the pants hold up. Lo and behold, they did. You're welcome, guys watching the dressing room on the monitor.

Oh, and I also spent a good five minutes doing naked lunges. Merry Christmas fellas, double you're welcome.

I left the dressing room, figuring that my night was over. Little did I know what destiny had in store for me.

I was headed to the checkout when It called to me.

Like a beacon of light in this cold, dark, grey world, it showed Itself to me.

In the clearance racks right near the register, I saw It, and I knew It had to be mine.

The unequivocally, undoubtedly, unquestionably: The Most Hideous Shirt In The World.

I spotted it in the middle of a rack of clothes, and once my eyes fell upon it, I knew it had to be mine.

The cost: a mere $7, a low price to pay for the gift of immortality.

Avert your gaze, mere mortal!

I picked it out, and destiny had my number: just my size.

I held the shirt up, and I savored it, the way a sommelier would a fine chianti. I decided to take a victory lap around the store, to show the other shoppers what kind of man they were dealing with.

As I walked around the store, Hideous Shirt out front for all the world to see, the look on the faces I encountered were priceless.

Revulsion, disgust, insane jealously. This was the melange of emotions I encountered from the humanity that had encountered my purchase.

I ran into the guy who had been trying on the faggy shirt from before, he took one look at the shirt, and he literally exploded in a giant ball of green flame, a la the drummer from Spinal Tap.

Victory lap complete, I proceeded to the register. I got the stink eye from the cashier, as he loaded the shirt into the bag, and wouldn't you know it, the shirt sleeve rose up and slapped him for his insolence.

I don't know where I can wear my newfound treasure. A funeral, a wedding, the birth of my first born? All seem much too trivial.

All I know is that the shirt is sitting in my closet now, waiting, watching. Encased in an onnocent looking white plastic bag it lies, dormant until mankind needs it most.

When the world is most ready to see the shirt, I know it will make its presence known.

And I, it's humble, chosen messenger, will be there to parade it around in all its glory.

Amen.