Well folks, I'm back. After being ambushed by a certain hyperbolic sports editor and his hetero-lifemate, I felt a little slighted.
The way Lauv, or the son of \Big D,"" described it, I was smacked around like a rented mule. But as I recall, it was barely a victory. But what really chapped my ass was that he refers to his mom as ""Big D."" And I swear, there's nothing sadder than some punk-ass from Toledo giving his mother a nickname fit for a rapper. But I digress...
Two weeks ago, I celebrated my birthday. My parents asked me what I wanted. I told them, but apparently ponies and mail-order brides are inappropriate gifts nowadays. So like the capitalist pigs they are, they sent me cash. I had already stocked my booze cabinet the day before, so against my better male tendencies, I went clothes shopping.
Now for me, clothes shopping is almost as painful as trying to talk to a woman in a bar when you're tripping over yourself, only being able to string together the classy line, ""I'M TWELVE INCHES ... A-R-O-U-N-D ... Think about it."" Before Madison, I didn't need a wardrobe. I wore a uniform for all of my school life, and what I had in clothes, my older sister who worked at Eddie Bauer took care of. So when I came here, I had a couple pairs of jeans and a week's worth of t-shirts.
Today my closet looks like a Steve and Barry's catalog. And to be on this campus with little money and a sizeable need for clothes is like being in the Sahara with a Dixie cup full of water. But I started my journey down State Street in search of a comfortable pair of pants.
I started at Jazzman, and I soon realized that I couldn't even afford to walk into the store itself. I think consultation with an employee would cost more than I had. So I moved down to Ragstock to search for a pair of trousers. But all I found were ironic feather boas and German army jackets.
The Gap was fine, but I just couldn't bring myself to put on a pair of pants when Willie Nelson's leathery, weed-smoked face was glaring at me. It's just too damn creepy!
So that left one choice on State Street: Urban Outfitters. Urban Outfitters always seemed like the type of place where I didn't belong. Maybe it was the intricately cracked glass, or the horrible pop music blaring out of the store, but I just didn't feel welcome. And against my better judgement, I sucked it up and entered the establishment.
Following is a transcript between the U.O. employee and myself:
Me: ""Hi, I'm looking for a pair of pants and possibly a sweater.""
UO: ""We have these jeans with the bejeesus worn out of the ass and thigh areas with a urine-colored stain set in them. They're really cool and only $85.""
Me: ""Well, what could I get for 50 bucks?""
UO: ""How about these retro sunglasses? They're really cool and a certain guy named JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE wears them! Only $55.""
Me (to myself): ""If they looked like ass in the '70s, why would they look good now?""
Me (to the UO guy): ""Well, that's a little too pricey...""
UO: ""Wait a sec, aren't you from New York or a suburb of Chicago?""
Me: ""Actually, I'm from Minnesota.""
UO: ""GET THE HELL OUT OF MY STORE YOU POOR, UNSOPHISTICATED PEON!""
Now I guess it's back to Steve and Barry's'SWEATPANTS STYLE!
