Wrapper's delight

I did it again.

I tell myself every fucking year that I'll change, and every fucking year I do the same thing.

I go Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve.

Why? I knew what gifts I needed to get as early as Dec. 1. Hell, I would have been able to order them online and have them delivered to my goddam doorstep if I didn't suck so bad. Some gift ideas were impossible, since they required time to actually manufacture.

I suck.

So I pushed it back to Christmas Eve, where I had to fight 1,000 other fuckers who are just as lazy as me, plus visit some family, plus find time to wrap this shit.

But I do my shopping fighting a crowd at every parking lot, entrance and checkout line as I go.

My last stop: Border's books, for a book for my mom and my dad. Sounds simple enough, right?

Wrong-o, fuckface.

As soon as I get into the store, I see a line that stretches to the back of the store, and almost to the front again, a full store-length of douchebags, all of whom will be out of this God-forsaken hell-hole before me.

I fight the masses of the great unwashed to find the books in question, and any thought about buying myself a glorious present (because, after all, only I know what I truly need), I get in line.

In front of me: an old lady with a cane, who was buying a bunch of shit from that Twilight movie, pewter bracelets and other baubles for the discerning poser/vampire teenager.

Four people on front of me: a family, that grows from two people, to four people, to SEVEN FUCKING people in the space of five minutes.

Now, by just sitting in line, I have already gone backwards, all because these fucks are breaking the social contract that defines long-line etiquette.

But I keep my mouth shut. Mostly because Yahtzee on my cell phone is stemming the tide of insanity that threatens to break forth in the unsuspecting populace.

The closest I came was when the lady in front of me dropped a bracelet, and was struggling with her weight distribution on her cane while trying to pick it up. I wanted to kick the cane out from under her, just to take her spot and save myself maybe thirty seconds. That's how pissed I was.

But I made it. I bought the books, was calmed down by the saccharine sweetness of the cashier (who also happened to have a great rack), and I made my way to the exit. Next stop: A place to buy a gift bag.

Brief side note: Whoever invented wrapping paper should burn in hell. I consider myself to be a pretty smart guy. I'm good at math, my spatial reasoning skills are a little above average, and I made a B in high-school honors Geometry. But I cannot wrap a gift to save my life.

The last attempt I made was two years ago for my mom's birthday (since she usually wraps for me), and I went through a roll and a half of tape, almost an entire roll of wrapping paper, and it still looked like something that was filled with anthrax at a senator's office.

Back to the now.

As I was walking out, I saw a table of girls that seemed to be heaven sent. No, not for the reason you think, it was a table filled with girl scouts. Okay, now get your mind out of the gutter. I've never statutory raped anyone in my life. Those records are sealed.

No, they were wrapping gifts for people, for free, but donations were welcome. What a great idea.

I dropped off my two books with them, and since I didn't have any cash, I told them I would run to the ATM to get their donation.

It wasn't until I got outside of the store, and was walking to the nearby supermarket to the ATM when a conundrum presented itself to me.

Namely, the minimum amount to withdraw is $20. I'll be damned if I was going to give these adolescent cockteases in their seductive brown aprons twenty of my hard-earned dollars to wrap my gifts.

I had two choices: A) Buy something, like a pack of gum, which would give me several ones and a five, which I could then donate; or B) Just ask the Girl Scouts if they had change, creating a potentially awkward situation with them and their chaperon.

Due to my previously stated love of awkward moments, I decided on option B.

I went back, grabbed my presents, thanked them, and started rooting through their donation jar for change.

"Uh, excuse me sir? What are you doing?" The chaperon asked.

"Don't worry about it cunt, I'm just looking for change," I replied. Okay, not really, but I was at my tipping point, pardon the pun.

"I need change for this twenty," I said.

"Oh! Well, don't you think these girls could use that twenty more than you?"

I almost slapped her in the face. I work hard for my money, and these little bitches deserve my fucking twenty dollars?

"Uh, unless I get to deflower each and every one of these girls before their wedding day, ma'am, there is no fucking way they are getting my twenty dollars."

"Sir! You need to watch your mouth!"

"HOW ABOUT YOU WATCH YOUR FUCKING MOUTH, WHORE"

"Please, keep your voice down, you're making a scene."

"YOU AND YOUR LITTLE STABLE OF SLUTS ARE TRYING TO DUPE ME OUT OF MY FUCKING MONEY, AND I'M THE ONE OUT OF LINE? DREAM ON, CUNT!!!"

Not, very Christmas-y, I know, but it had been a long day.

But, I'm happy to report, I was able to compose myself and leave, causing minimal damage.

Read: I picked up their donation jar, and flung it across the store, leaving a trail of quarters and ones all the way back to the Manga section, creating quite a scene.

Luckily, I was able to escape in my car, and avoided any potential repercussions from "The Man."

And with this, I leave you to your own personal yuletide celebrations:



Merry Christmas you filthy animals.