When I sat down at my computer today, I had every intention of writing a really fascinating post, a fable of sorts. I was going to set the scene at a bustling Target one Saturday morning and follow it up with multiple paragraphs of character development and an exciting plot filled with one man’s version of Internet porn, some lingerie and a touch of negligent homicide. It was going to be a story wrought with moral turpitude, conflict, mental cruelty and angst, culminating in an emotionally gut wrenching climax of lessons learned.
The story was going to be centered around a man hopping online without supervision *again* and buying a $140.00 juicer for his family which, admittedly, doesn’t sound like a very compelling tale but HOLD ON TO YOUR KNICKERS, PEOPLE because I was going to add in little interesting details like … oh, I don’t know … maybe the man inadvertently revealing this purchase to his wife whilst she was perusing the women’s underwear department of Target?
And then maybe the wife had flashbacks to $80 Chia Pets and gasped so hard that she nearly swallowed her adenoids while screaming BUT NO ONE IN OUR FAMILY EVEN DRINKS JUICE.
And then maybe the man slowly backed away from his wife because her left eye was starting to twitch and her head was starting to spin counter clockwise and she was starting to speak in tongues.
And then maybe the man narrowly escaped a 100% cotton 8-pair jumbo pack enema by grabbing his daughter’s hand and dragging her away to the pet department under the guise of getting their puppy some new chew toys because it turns out their puppy is really a seven pound furry piranha in disguise.
And then maybe the daughter returned to the wife at a full speed run twenty minutes later, waving what appeared to be an outfit for her American Girl doll which would have been really weird because it had been forever since the daughter had played tattoo parlor with a permanent marker on that particular $100 Christmas gift but whatever, there were more pressing issues at hand, such as determining the difference between hipsters and bikinis, and theorizing why people choose to wear thongs because don’t we as a people spend enough time trying to yank our undies out of our fanny cleavage as it is? And by the way, HOLY SHIT, IS THAT A CHRISTMAS TREE IN ELECRONICS?
And then maybe it turned out that what the daughter was hysterically waving in the air was not, in fact, an outfit for a grossly overpriced doll but rather a miniature Buffalo Bills t-shirt, sized extra-small and made specifically for seven pound incognito shih-poo piranha puppies and then the wife who, having previously made it crystal clear to her family that dressing up any animals in clothing is seventy-two different kinds of WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, decided that it was high time to sit the man down for a long overdue Come To Jesus talk even if it had to take place in the midst of granny panties but before she could tackle him to the floor and hogtie him with his colon, she heard her daughter excitedly exclaim IT WAS ONLY TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS, MOM! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?
And then maybe the wife couldn’t see straight anymore for all the blood gushing around her brain which caused her head to spin right off her body and ricochet around the racks of bras and thongs, getting snagged on a 44DDD which acted like a slingshot, launching her bloody head right back at her headless body like some heat seeking missile, causing it to slam into her legs, shattering her shins and dropping her to the ground where she lay unconscious and left to wonder which of these egregious offenses would ultimately do her in: the shock of seeing the $140 juicer appear on their bank statement and doorstep, the two inches of dust that will have inevitably collected on the unopened box three months after delivery, the disembodied, bloody head that took out her kneecaps, her puppy prancing around as a mascot for a football team who loses season after season out of sheer habit, the obscenely premature appearance of the elves staring down at her from the shelf above, or the fact that despite her own preaching, she would finally be caught dead while wearing torn and stained period panties, they being the only underwear she owned to date, thus her browsing of the Fruit of the Looms in a bustling Target on a Saturday morning in the first place.
I was even going to post a picture and everything.
But after several minutes of staring at a blank screen, I ultimately wound up chucking the whole story idea.
I just couldn’t find the right words.