Sorry about the lapse in columns – I know that you all missed me, and if you didn’t shame on you, bunch of heartless bastards. I had the worst toothache and it impaired my ability to think, write, move, sleep, eat, breath… trust me I was more impaired last week than on a normal day.
The sad fact of the matter is that I am too poor to have it fixed, so I will just have to tough it out until it falls out or I pull a Kurt Cobain and do some at home dentistry with my AK-47.
If that isn’t bad enough I found out recently (mostly because I couldn’t afford to have the tooth fixed) that I am a compulsive shopper. Laugh all you want but the AMA states that this condition is a legitimate mental disorder (really, look it up). Now that the medical community recognizes this as a disorder I am hoping to use this to get out of debt.
Its akin to begging out of a death sentence by talking backwards and referring to a sock puppet as “mommy”. But I will be using a doctors note instead of acting silly at a murder trial. I plan to send a copy of my doctors note to Citi-bank, Sears, JC Penny, Target, Pier-one, College, my mother, my bank, and the supermarket and viola’ all fixed. Thus proving that I am ill and enabling me to shop to my hearts desire and no one can stop me, why you ask? Because I am sick and restricting my ability to shop would be a violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act (insert evil laughter here).
With a little (very little) research I have discovered how this illness first manifests itself – The DOLLAR STORE. Its insidious nature is unparalleled in the world of shopping. You think “Wow! That plastic fly-swatter shaped like a hand is only a DOLLAR…get out!” So you buy 10, because you figure that everyone you know could use one, if not for bugs then for swacking their bad ass kids. With the glow from your fly-swatter find leading your way, you move on to the “personal” isle where you can find everything from eye shadow from 1974 to Ladies Briefs in a size 70. “Well, what the hell! I’ve got to know someone who could use blue/black eye shadow and underwear,” you think as you pile it all into your little hand basket. You progress through the store grabbing junk that you, or anyone else you know, don’t need.
20 minutes into your shopping spree you realize that your hands have gone numb and you can’t grasp another thing, you decide to check out. 57 dollars and 17 cents later you drag your trash bag of crap to your car feeling much better about yourself because “what a deal. Under 60 dollars for a giant bag of goodies.”
Meanwhile, your teeth really hurt and that mole on your shoulder has turned from a funny brown color to a putrid green. You’re pretty sure that its cancer, but a new shoe store has just opened up around the corner. Frankly, its not like the 40 dollars you spend on the shoes could pay for your chemo anyway.
Next Week: You’re on my list, buddy!
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