HANDFUL OF TITS!!

Yeee Haw!!!!!

OK, they're baby Blue Tits, but still!!

Damn Damn Damn

People magazine has reported:

Despite circulating reports, and Jenna Jameson's hopes, that the actress is just the right mix of sexy and mysterious, Scarlett Johansson will not portray the porn star in the film adaptation of her autobiography. "Scarlett has never seen a script nor been approached about this project," says a rep for the actress. "She also has no interest in playing this role."

Speaking with PEOPLE at the Comic Con convention in San Diego this weekend, Jameson, 33, said she was smitten with the 22-year-old Johansson after seeing her Golden Globe-nominated turn in the 2003 film Lost in Translation. "I remember thinking to myself, this girl has such a sexuality without even really trying to be sexy," Jameson said. "I was like, this girl could play me!"

End of July

I was not attracted to the triple-nipple layout. The glossy grinning triplets posing seductively across the pages laid across my lap did not arouse the interest one might expect.

Sure, the wrongness of if was titillating, not not much else.

Smoke billowed across the lower deck, hovering momentarily under the umbrella, swimming around my head. I could smell the lamb and the herbs. I could smell the smoldering wood. The tall icy margarita, wearing its salty halo, sat within arms reach.

The dog lay at my feet. The girl waved hello down from the top deck. Automatic sprinklers popped up and danced in time, painting the green grass with a simmering top coat.

I was slightly buzzed, and thumbing through my latest magazine. I was one with the weekend.

Telepathy

I'm pretty sure the boy has the ability to read thoughts...

The girl might also, but she's too busy watching Dora to care...

Done

Done reading.

The final two lines seemd conditional in a way. Don't be surprised if another book shows up ten years from now... The story rising from the ashes. Like a phoenix....

I'm going to bed.

Hello

Hello??

Is this thing on??

Anyone??

Hello.........

And Just A Brief Word About Paris Hilton

Paris, it seems, is normal.


Well, not exactly normal in the same sense that you or I may be normal. You, that is, unless you are Carl or Dr. B.... But normal nonetheless.

Sure, she has enough money to buy human beings for furniture. Sure, she is famous in places where people still wear bamboo clothing and eat neighboring tribes. Sure she gets paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to simply "appear" at social gatherings.

Normal.

I say this because, in all fairness, one should only be judged by and in contrast to one's own peers.

And just who exactly are her peers?

Well, for starters, there is her good pal Lindsay.


Sure, Lindsay is a hot piece of ass. And sure, her breath probably smells more like cum than a ripe Carob tree in August, but really, what the hell is wrong with her?? Two back-to-back DUI charges, one with a hit-and-run, cocaine possession, transporting narcotics, driving while suspended, and fleeing the scene of an accident??

She is facing six years of hard prison time, which will play hell on her contract with Disney...

Oh, and Britney.


Not to be out-paparazzied, she's building steam, and getting ready to blow. Seems that this Friday, OK! magazine will be publishing an article covering their own ordeal last week with the former singing sensation. During a publicity interview/photo shoot arranged by Britney herself, she came entirely unhinged. Rails off tracks. Asses over tea kettles.

While OK! tends to shelter the fragile famous from the harsh glare of reality, they will be posting the entire glossy train wreck in their Friday edition. Hurry! Run to the news stand now!

So, Paris, it seems, at least in comparison to her peers, is really quite normal.

Most of the bits in this post were lifted in their entirety from What would Tyler Durden do, which is OK, because that guy rips all of his shit off from TMZ...

1976

The golden age of television.



Let me make sure I got this right. Two bionic legs. One bionic right arm. One bionic telephoto right eye.

But that's it. Right? His spine isn't reinforced? No adamantine coating his bones? No sub-scalpal safety helmet? Normal boney rib cage?

Right. I thought so. Just checking.

Although, when I was 6, I ate this crap up! Although, to be honest, the maniac robotic Mars rover episode really freaked my shit out.

musical filler

Fishless

The aquarium sits empty. My fish quest weekend was a boondoggle. I will try again soon.

Dorks

Live from dork central. 10,000 costumed geeks have surrounded powell's city of books. Fortunately I brought scotch.

Blue Eyes

This may get complicated.

My sister, who is technically my half-sister, has blue eyes. Mom and Dad have brown eyes, which means they each have one recessive blue-eye gene apiece. She, therefore, had a 75% chance of being brown-eyed, and only 25% to get the eyes that she has.

I have brown eyes, like my mother. However, I had a different biological y-chromosome donor than my sister. He, as I understand, had blue eyes. So, my chances of ending up with the brown that I have were essentially 2/4, or 50%. Clearly, however, I have one recessive blue.

The missus has greenish hazel eyes. Recently, we discovered that she too has a recessive blue. How do we know this? Because the boy has blue eyes, and according to the doctor, they are going to stay that way.

Doing some quick 9th grade calculations, I determined that the boy had a 50% chance of having brown eyes, 25% of having hazelly-green, and only a 25% chance of the blue he ended up with. Like his aunt, he beat the narrow odds.

The girl, on the other hand, has my brown eyes, which leaves for later the question whether she got her mamma's green genes or blue.

Something my mother and I both noticed, though, besides the blue eyes, is that the boy seems to have inherited a number of features from my Y-side. It was starkly apparent in the first few days, and has recently re-emerged.

Now, I know that babies rarely really look like anyone, least of all their future selves, but this resemblance is uncanny. While I never really looked much like my bio-pop myself, my son, quite frankly, does.

And now I worry a bit about what he has inherited in his DNA. How much of who we are is attributable to that chemical code in our cells? How much can be loved and nurtured out of him?

Maybe the question is: "How much can be loved and nurtured INTO him?"

Yes, yes, Nature vs. Nurture, a staple topic of Pop-Philosophy 101 courses across college campuses everywhere. Truth is, most folks these days are realizing that it's both. It's a matter of doing what you can with what you have.

I suppose he did beat the narrow odds on his eye color. Maybe there's luck in those genes of his. In this world, he'll need it. (Note to self: start poker lessons as soon as possible...)

Voldemort

**Spoiler Free**

Although, not everyone has read the books through volume 6, so please use caution.

The fate of the latest dark lord to capture the popular imagination is at hand. No, I am not talking about the 2008 elections. Voldemort is near his mortal (muggle or magical) end, but in all likelihood, actually stands ready to take his place along side Darth Vader and Sauron in the cultural pantheon of Evil.

The frenzy is on. The 5th movie is making a bazillion dollars. THE BOOK, the 7th and final, is poised to make even more. The inevitable Canadian dumbass bookstore clerk has already shipped the unfortunate early copies. The leaks have erupted. The spoilers are out. 750 some-odd pages have been digitally photographed and released on line.

JK's global army of lawyers are at Def-Con 1. Cease-and-desist letters are flying.

Uber-geeks are gearing up for the the midnight costume-ball release. The waiting is finally near its end.

What will happen? Will Harry live or die? Is Snape's book-6-victim really dead? Was the prophecy really about Neville? All these answers and more will be available Saturday morning at 12:01 a.m.

Well, OK, they are available now.

Like a moth to a flame, flirting with disaster, risking the ultimate disappointment, I skirted and flitted around the spoiler posts surging forth from the nerdy-corner of the blogosphere.

Photos of the pages were posted. Conflicting photos with divergent text were also posted. Spoilers run amok. JK has stated publicly that two characters die. However, there have been enough death announcements in the past two days to suggest that, Hamlet-like, EVERYONE dies. Logically, that is highly unlikely. For better or for worse, I believe that the real spoilers have been diluted and disguised by an avalanche of bogus posts. You can't trust anything you read. So, I am keeping an open mind.

I'll wait for Friday night (Saturday morning)... I'll read the book the way it was meant to be read. Then, I'll wait for the rest of you to catch up.

In the mean time, here are my predictions, based solely upon my personal conjecture:

1) I believe that either Harry or his scar is the sixth and final Horcrux. Harry's mother represented the necessary triggering murder, and Harry has a "part of Voldemort" in him.

(Do you have any Dark Lord in you? Would you like some?)

Anyway, that would mean that Harry has to be destroyed in order to, uh, destroy Mr. V.

2) Snape is the hero. The obviousness surrounding Snape's complicity in the tragic events at the end of book 6 were transparent to the point of insult. Snapes' motivation to "save" Malfoy in the larger spiritual sense, combined with the victim's plea of "Snape please!" leaves no doubt as to Snape's allegiance. Really, if you are still doubting Snape's intentions, then you are either a 13-year-old girl, or you simply need to find something less-challenging to read.

That having been said, Snape, the tragic misunderstood underdog, will bear out, like Sam Gamgee, to be saver-of-the-day.

3) My prediction works out like this: having come to a realization about Snape's true nature, Harry conspires to get close to Voldemort. Harry, also having destroyed the other remaining Horcruxes finds some tragically heroic way of ending his own life, thus allowing Snape to throw the dark mojo at the Dark Lord, which in turn, violates Snape's oath, thus ending his own life. Voldemort's demise doesn't count toward the author's predicted body count, and we are left with a dead Harry and a dead Snape.

4) I also think that we find out, ironically, that the prophecy was about Longbottom.

5) I also predict that we will confirm that Snape's book-six victim is in fact really and truly dead.

6) Assuming Ron and Hermione survive, they get married. Hermione becomes headmaster.

7) Fred and George, while not excatly saving the day, open a can of wicked-powerful magical ass-whoopin.

8) Professor Trewlany doesn't see any of this coming...

If you need to reach me at midnight on Friday, you can find me on the street, in-line, next to Powell's City of Books. I'll save some pumpkin juice for you.

Core

Nicole Kidman has run her course. She has been on the list long enough. And truth be told, she hasn't looked hot since she was packed up with pancake in Moulin Rouge.

I came to this conclusion the other evening, as I watched Stranger than Fiction. While I found that it was a surprisingly fantastic film, you may become confused to learn that Nicole Kidman is not in it. She is not in the film, nor is the film about her. She, in fact, has nothing to do with the film whatsoever.

Rather, prominently featured in the romantic-interest supporting role was none other than the naughty secretary herself, Maggie Gyllenhaal.

While I wondered silently to myself,why Maggie had been absent from the LIST for so long, my questions were given voice by the missus sitting over on the sofa. "Hey, why isn't Maggie on your list?" she asked.

Why, in deed...

Which caused me to reconsider the fickle fluidity of the list, and what lay at its core. Nicole has held on, for years now, out of sheer sentimentality, and the very rare occasion when she appears in public with red hair. That, my friends, is simply not enough.

Alyson Hannigan hasn't slayed me since the sun went down on Sunnydale.

And slot number 5... I don't even remember who last held slot number five. Oh, wait, it was the latest Bond babe, whose name I cannot remember. That simply will not do.

So, it is time for some re-tinkering.

So here it is, the all new-super-improved, all-refined and completely re-defined Gin & Tonic Lounge Laminated List:

1. Christina Ricci.

Duh...

2. Dita Von Tease.

Manson-free, and minty fresh...

3. Scarlett Johansson.

This one should have been obvious to anyone paying attention.

4. Maggie Gyllenhaal

She makes me want to proof read

And finally...

5. Jenna Fischer

Feisty office minx.

(Jim Halpert needs to grow a pair...)

Neighborhood

I met the new neighbor this weekend. Well, actually, I met two of my neighbors this weekend, wich is surprising and odd, since I both fear and loath my neighbors. However, the point here is really just the new neighbor. The next door neighbor. The house I was worried about.

Seems nice enough, although I detected something of a sneer as he looked at my small-ish SUV, and announced that he was "Walking to Albertsons."

Jesus Christ, that's like a mile away...

Anyway, he seems nice, and just moved from Hawaii. His wife and kids are arriving in August, which means, I guess, that he's not gay, or at least not officially. I mean, he IS a walker...

Also, I learned that he is a doctor, which is a bit of a step-up for me, having grown up next door to a drug dealer. His name was Gary. I'll share my Gary stories with you sometime. But for now, I can revel in the fact that the new neighbor is a doctor, and likely, not a gay one, not that there's anything wrong with it...

Five Avocado

I gripped the Haas in my hand this evening at the grocery store. I had already settled upon chicken tostadas. The only question remaining was the guacamole. The avocados looked large, but fairly sketchy. Fortunately, I found five firm fatty fruit, and decided to make a go of it.

Five large Haas avocados is really the ideal number. It makes the perfect batch, as it, in fact, did. The tostadas were good after a long hot weekend of working in the sun. The ice-cold Coronas with little wedges of lime paired perfectly with the meal.

Unfortunately, what I forgot, was the potent potential posed by the green guac. Guacamole flatulence is, perhaps, the most lethal gas produced by the human body, and I am stewing in it here at my desk. Even my dog, who sits by my chair each night as I post, has fled the room.

Old Car File

Rifling through files tonight, I came across a folder marked "Old Car Stuff." I slid it from the straining file drawer, assuming that it contained old tire receipts, parts invoices, insurance cards and DMV documents dating back to the Mitsubishi, maybe even the Isuzu. What I failed to anticipate, though, was the journey back in time, on which this file would lead me.

Sure, those documents were there. Records for the Gallant. Records for the Pick Up. But there was also a repair invoice for the Escort and a bill of sale for the Rabbit.

The banana-yellow Volkswagen diesel Rabbit.

What shocked me the most, however, was at the bottom of the stack. There, I found complete records relating to the three-day adventure that was my first car. It was a lime-green 1979 Datsun B-210. And in the stack of papers, I found the only surviving photo...

And, well, here it is:


Of course, when I bought it, it had substantially less damage. Oh, and, did I mention that this was all Dr. Brian's fault?

See, well, it actually started, as these things usually do, with Tom. It was 1988. April, 1988, to be precise. (I still have the police report.) Tom was gainfully employed in the lucrative frozen yogurt industry, and hooked Brian and I up as bad ass yogurt slingers.

Pinching and scrimping, Brian and I both saved enough within a couple of months to buy our first cars. Mine was the lovely green thing pictured above. Brian's was a Sirocco.

In Christ-like fashion, after the passing of three days, Brian appeared one morning at my door tittering around in an excited manner. His beloved Sirocco was idling in my driveway. His bangs were bleached. His jeans shorts were acid washed.

"C'mon!" he demanded. "Let's go! you MUST come with me!"

Confused, but curious, I tagged along, and soon found myself strapped into a car traveling at ungodly speeds down my usually-peaceful suburban cul-de-sac.

"Watch this!" Brian announced with a maniacal gleam in his eye.

Famous last words... Some of my favorite words, however, ever uttered by Brian. (and there have been some good ones...)

And with that, he yanked the E-brake.

Seems he had been perfecting this Dukes-of-Hazard-like maneuver all morning, power-sliding 360s in parking lots, intersections, and god-knows-where. It was thrilling! It was impressive! I was psyched!

Unfortunately, my pleasure lasted for about 1.5 seconds, until I, or we, both realized that we were not actually free-spinning. Rather, we had turned approximately 15 degrees before our wheel caught traction, and we were driving at high speed directly for the concrete curb.

The noise, more than the shock of impact, made me sick. The sound of a performance vehicle having its undercarriage eviscerated has that effect...

Brian was unhappy. His dad was even more so.

The following day, as I still had my Datsun intact, Brian asked me to drive him up to his mechanic, whereupon he received the very BAD news.

As we drove back, we decided to take Lark Ellen Avenue southbound toward Puente Avenue, where Brian lived. (which leads to a side note, Dr. B, as I'm sure you are reading this, what in the name of all things tacky happened to the front yard of your old house?? I mean, holy fucking theme park Batman!!)

Anyway, so, there we were on Lark Ellen, four-lane highway, right-of-way, through traffic, good visibility, 30-40 miles per hour (according to the police report), when all of a sudden, some quasi-retarded haus-frau darted from a side street in her 1970's-style family van.

After entering and blocking my lane, she finally looked in my direction and saw me, and in fine defensive driving fashion, she slammed on her brakes and stopped.

Time, then, took on an entirely different quality. It slowed nearly to a stop. Everything became brighter. Smells became smellier. Sounds became louder. I applied the brakes in firm manner, and veered to the left. Brian braced for impact. We then proceeded with all deliberate haste to plow into the the broad side of the van. The resulting damage is displayed in the photo above.

Two cars. Two accidents. Three days. Between us, we had some minor stiffness to show for it. They say teenagers think they're invincible, and well, looking back, perhaps they are.

Craigslist Update

Fish tank. Check.

Craigslist

Who is this Craig, I wonder at times, whose simple list is so singularly useful? Who is this Craig, who harnessed the harsh isolation of the world wide web to actually nurture cohesive communities.

The service is pure, a free flowing of ideas, political, commercial, religious, alternative, prurient and extreme. You can rant or rave about your local Starbuck's barista, or buy or sell a lawn mower. You may advertise or apply for open jobs. Seek Mr. right, or simply Mr. Right-Now. Join a church. Join an orgy. Join a conversation about lesbian-themed knitting circles on NW 23rd.

Whereas eBay and Amazon were the first sources for goods on-line, Craigslist has become the autonomic search engine of choice for many who need goods or services in their general vicinity.

I have purchased camera gear, computer components, and a freezer from the list. I have even tapped the list to hire office help. Listers are generally easy going and good natured, and share a certain Craigslist sensibility. I'm certainly not saying that it's perfect. It isn't a digital utopia, but it is quite likely the best thing going.

I currently scour the list on a daily basis. I am looking for three things.

First, there is a lens that I Desire. Note, the capital "D "in the last sentence is intentional. I Desire this lens. It is currently the number one tangible material thing that I crave. I covet it. I lust for it. I would commit other sins, deadly or otherwise, to get this lens.

Problem is, I have a hang up against paying full price. So, I wait, and watch the list. It is a rare item to find for sale. Rarer still to find for a discount. I am patient though.

Volo proinde ego exspecto

Second, I want a telescope, and again I wait for the discount price from some sad nerd who has become disillusioned with astronomy. Fact is, I've always wanted a telescope with which to scan the heavens. Since childhood, I've wanted one. Every year I asked for one. Even as an adult, I have been drawn to them, especially so now with Jupiter, Saturn and Venus all visible to the eye in the early-evening sky.

No one has ever bought one for me. I never opened one under the Christmas tree. Strangely, I've never purchased one for myself, though I think about it often.

At Frye's, I gravitate with intention, or otherwise, toward the telescope aisle. I never stop long for fear of being found out that my geek is meek in this technosphere. See, I know next to nothing about them. So, I look and lust from afar, or from a well-risked glancing pass, but avoid any embarrassing contact with the erudite retail ogres, who stalk the walkways.

Lastly, and this one took Mrs. G&T by absolutely no surprise at all, I'm looking for a newer, bigger aquarium, for my office. Preferably with its own attractive stand. This one, really, is quite simple. See, after my first real office job in Portland, my wife bought me a ficus for my desk, which did well, but which, also, on a whim, I licked. Still, it and I both survived the licking, until one day, at the next office, it got bugs and died. The next new job was celebrated with the purchase of a small 6 gallon fish tank, which grew too small too quickly, and was replaced with a 20 gallon. With, then, the departure from the last gig, and the two-week down time, that tank came home, where it currently sits with bubbling blue tranquility behind me at this very moment.

So, I'm going to keep it here, which leaves me with a vast gaping gap along the rear wall of my office, which begs for fish, a tank to hold then, and a small cabinet upon which the whole marvelous contraption may rest.

Fortunately, folks post about a dozen aquariums, some with stands, on Craigslist, everyday.

So, I search, and soon I will have little swimmers in the office. I may even take pictures of them for you with the new lens, unless, of course, I'm too busy peeping into the window across the street with the telescope.

Panties and Polo Shirts

Mitch was recently surprised to learn that I was the first, and perhaps only, purchaser of a Syndicate shirt from Cafe Press . I confirmed, in fact, that it is a nice-quality item of clothing. Very comfortable, and quite unique.

Just to be clear, I am also the proud owner of a stripper-related t-shirt inspired by Dave's novel, "Wingman."

Recently, I have been pondering my own place in the world of self-promoting clothing. I Suspect that a few Lounge-related items on Cafe Press might generate a little buzzz...

The biggest question, i suppose, is just what would be offered...

Panties to be sure.

Thong panties, with some horribly lascivious logo printed on the patch.

And polo shirts, too, I suppose. You know, for the guys...

But what logo? What catch phrase or image best captures the spirit of the Lounge? Certainly, certain icons come to mind..

So many choices...

undone

I'm done for the night. I'm going to bed. I had a great post planned, 4 to 5 pithy paragraphs on the planet Jupiter (currently bright in the night sky). Instead, however, certain software frustrations relating to Photoshop and Microsoft have sidetracked my momentum. They have sucked what little creative energy I had, and have left me angry and tired. I'm going to bed. I will try this again tomorrow.

In the meantime, here is a picture of my Red Wag Platy:

Just a Quick Theological Note Regarding Breakfast Meat

I had an epiphany last night, which I was initially reluctant to share with you. On second thought, however, I've decided to send it floating out into the stream of ideas.

My realization is this: Bacon is a lot like Jesus.

For instance, we eat bacon, and during communion, (at least in the Catholic version) we eat the Lord.

Conversely, most Jews (with the exception perhaps of Mitch) don't eat bacon. Nor, do they take communion.

Uncooked bacon floats. Jesus walked on water.

Bacon is cured. Jesus cured the lepers.

Jesus died for our sins. Bacon died for breakfast. The list, it seems, goes on and on...

747

Pancakes in the park
Parade I
Sweaty
Fireworks Stand
Nap
Parade II
Meat
Beer
BOOM

These Are a Few of my Favorite Things

I am too lazy and too tired to post anything remotely interesting tonight. So, instead, you get video filler...



And a bonus clip: (Probably not work friendly, as if you care...)

Dear Best Buy

Best Buy (# 1442)
Attn: Store Director
7041 Sw Nyberg St
Tualatin,OR 97062

Dear Store Director:

Congratulations on opening your newest Best Buy retail store here in the lovely state of Oregon. Geographically located as I am, I have been historically torn between driving to your ghetto-like east-side store, or making the longer, yet safer, drive to Beaverton. The Beaverton location, of course, has ill-conceived and wholly inadequate parking. It is also poorly placed at the land-locked Cedar Hills Center, which requires that I risk the wrath of the jack-bootedly thuggish Beaverton Police Department and their goddamn photo radar...

Forgive me Mr. Store Director, I digress.

So, it was with jubilant elation that I learned of the latest installation, just off the freeway, in the quiet community of Tualatin. "Hurray!" I said, "hurray! For now I can quickly and conveniently save time and money by slaking my thirst for the latest electronic doodads and baubles at discount prices on the way home from work!"

Unfortunately, we both know this isn't true. Whereas, once, Best Buy was the defacto automatic destination for the best selection and lowest prices. Slowly, however, and insidiously, your prices have crept upward toward the unsightly MSRP. There are places to go, at least for the slack-jawed and dim-witted, where one can voluntarily pay MSRP on home electronics. Hell, if you are lazy enough, you can even find a way to pay a premium.

Once an oasis from this stifling inflationary retail culture, Best Buy has greedily slowly but steadily inflated its way to irrelevance.

This, however, is not necessarily your fault. What is your fault, though, is the piss-poor manner in which your store is run. Let us start with the door lackey. The pasty boy in the ill-fitting polo shirt whose job it is to sit on a stool and make with witless welcomes to each potential patron who walks through the door.

How nice... how friendly...

Bullshit. He is there for the sole purpose of reminding us that you are watching our every move. We will not steal because the are four yellow-shirted floor monkeys for each and every one of us.

I am usually short on time when I wander in. I do not want to chit chat with Sparky the retail boy. However, over and over, I am intruded upon, harassed and harangued. I do not need to be helped. I am perfectly capable of reading the back of the printer box or selecting the latest Spice Girls CD with out a pimply pest disturbing my shopping therapy.

I do not want to be approached by your minions. It makes me want to NOT SPEND MONEY. Oh, and spend money, I have. Much, much, much money, over the years with your chain. But when you break my fantasy concentration as I stare doe-eyed at the DVD selection, I loose all urge to engage in commercial intercourse.

I have been shopping by myself for years now. I do not need your help. There is one thing you can do though. That is, you could put your goddamn DVDs in alphabetical order, oh, and, you could also put the new arrivals in the section marked as such. Your failure to stat such basic steps for the benefit and convenience of your customers displays an utter lack of respect for me and all others like me. Do you think we're stupid? Do you think we wouldn't notice your half-assed craptastic shelf-stocking short-comings?

Despite all of this, I did stop by your store on Friday to pick up my copy of Black Snake Moan, a fabulous movie, but one which will likely sail over your vacuous head, you Neanderthal turd ball...

Having had to search for this "New Release" in aisles other than the one marked "New Releases," I finally found my quarry and headed to the check stand.

There were no other customers in line (probably because of your unconscionable price gouging), yet I still needed to wander through the Disney-like maze of retractable nylon line straps. Sure your neat lanes would coral and maintain mobs of plenty, but it was just me. Your lack of forethought or attention to detail disturbs me. you should not be rewarded for sub-par supervision.

Nevertheless, I proceeded, mostly because the goodie in my hand wielded more mojo than your anti-mojo management quackery.

Your cashier finally ushered me through the last several yards of the maze, and over to her check stand. "Do you have our rewards card?" she asked. This stumped me a little, as i only wanted to pay for my DVD and go home.

"No," I said, as I waited for her to scan my item. And see, Mr. Manager, this is where it all went wrong. I blame you for her well-conditioned response. She was only following your training.

"Well, I can't believe that you want to just throw away an instant savings of 15%" She replied.

Wait a minute. Was she scolding me? Was she implying that I was somehow wrong for wanting to make my purchase and get out quickly?

I gave her a condescending look, which I excel at, and made it exceptionally clear that I was not interested and did not have time to sign up for anything that night. She finally found her way to scanning my ONE ITEM. Already several minutes had passed, but for no real reason. Once scanned, she deftly opened a tri-fold broschure and announced that I qualified for a "free" magazine subscription. "Which one do you want?" She inquired.

"I'm really not interested." Did she not see the arching eyebrow??

With a hurt look on her dry featureless homely face she repeated the lines that you gave her: "I really do not understand. This is such a fantastic deal. I cannot understand why you wouldn't take it. Well, if you can think of anyone else who would like to actually receive FREE magazines, be sure to send them in."

I looked at her, standing there with out any trace of personality or soul, horse faced, her frame featureless, her tan khakis stretched over her widening ass. She smelled vaguely of sweat and sour milk.

I cleared my throat, and clarified my disinterest. I should have beat her with the DVD. I really wanted the DVD though, and I sensed the ordeal was nearly over.

She gave me a disapproving look. I walked toward the exit, where I was once again accosted by spunky door-keeping twink. And with that, I was free.

Mr. Store Director, I hate you . I hate your cashier and I hate your store. I hate your intrusive employees and your hard-sale tactics. I wish you ill-will in general, and some form of disciplinary rebuke specifically. Please note, I will not be returning to your store.

Sincerely,

Mr. Gin & tonic