d Pardon My Juice: Rotten Fruit

Saturday, January 7

Rotten Fruit

So, I realize that I have yet to post my "Season's Greetings" piece, but I think some more relevant, more serious issues have arisen. I was waiting at the Corte Madera mall where I still hold on to, cling if you will, to my shitty retail job at William's Sonoma. I just wanted my pay check but didn't realize I'd arrived 10 minutes before the stores open.

I noticed there was a moderate number of people waiting at the doors with their respective merchandice to be returned. Things that when unwrapped were "what I always wanted" but after a few days were more valueable as store credit or better yet cash in hand, both in a material and sentimental sense. There was the wringing of an upbeat yet suspenseful Danny Elfmanesque soundtrack serving as backround to one of the most mundane Saturday morning backdrops I've ever seen. No eye contact. No conversation. People staring at their watches, their feet, even other people's stuff with those "Oh so, you're too good for one of those, huh? Well I guess that makes you better than me doesn't it," looks on their faces. So little movement accompanied by so little emotion and then a crecendo in the music perfectly timed with the Victoria's Secret manager fumbling her keys, dropping them, and inevitably exposing the top of her ass crack as the thong she was wearing may only have fit right before those hearty Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Don't get me wrong I thought about humping her right there on the spot, in the store, in the dressing rooms, maybe even invite her down to William's Sonoma for a little romp in the stock room. "You know I open lots of boxes back there baby doll."

"Well maybe you can open my box up and give me your special shipment."

As this was all in my head I don't think it was a good idea I be fondling myself through my pocket. The reality that existed as this fantasy tickled my brain (and I tickled my balls) was that at this point I think the closest to action I'd gotten was the aroused looks of women in their mid 50s (who themselves had not seen a real life erection in 20 years) noticing the bulge in my pants. I quickly adjusted myself, pinning Mr. Winky to my belly with the aid of my pants' waistline. Sure he was sticking out a little but my shirt was long enough.

I tried to clear my mind to settle myself down.

Then I took a moment to reflect. I recalled a writers meeting I was at where we were talking sketches for a comedy show. "Hey you know those girls gone wild movies. What if we did 'Guys gone wild?'" At this moment I died a little inside because I realized that last night I saw an add for guess what.......'Guys Gone Wild'. I'm still searching for the right word to decribe the....irony? of the situation.....the.......deranged reality of it......the........

Then I stepped in it. My answer was there under my feet. At first contact I was sure it was dog shit. Then, upon closer inspection I saw what could have been a pit. Was it a rotten plum, or peach, or maybe even nectarine? Either way, I knew that a deliciously ripe piece of fruit had been disgarded only to become the pasty mass half stuck to my shoe......or worse yet, a dog had picked it up depriving any human from enjoying it's intended purpose as a tasty treat and deficated the remaims here for all to see, pit still intact to remind us all of what could have been.

Sure I can clean my shoes and sure this mess can be cleaned up. But any way you slice this one, by either the hands of man or mother nature, some force has taken the ripe and tasty fruit that was 'Girls Gone Wild' and turned it into a pile of fecal waste that the American people will no doubt step in and say, "Eww! What the fuck is this?

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