Honk If You Love Jesus (LJi s8e7)
Y’all want an anecdote?
November 28, 2003
…
..
.
Black Friday (oh god)
While the reports of prison shankings over common gaming consoles have haunted the recent shopping explosion, the Friday after Thanksgiving has always been too big to be sane.
In 2003, I was 21 years old, single, aimless and still driving a black minivan (completely true). My best friend, who I’m convinced is actually named Svengali, tricked me into weathering Black Friday. Armed with our cudgel-like wits and noodle-like mitts, we presented what had to be the most heterosexual display of shopping prowess ever witnessed by mankind. It was a day infamously marked in history; a monument in its honor is under construction in Villa Las Estrellas. One day, Joey Fatone will salute that memorial with tears in his eyes and his pants around his ankles mere minutes before his drunk and disorderly arrest.
Circuit City was an old school flagship of electronics. It seemed like a decent place to find a cardboard box large enough to crawl in and die. They could tape the flaps shut at the funeral, before writing in marker “Fragile” for the mover’s information.
I tucked my hands back into my hoodie as we waded through chest-to-chest, wall-to-wall crowds simply to acquire my godfather a DVD player. As the heat rose, my natural body odor wafted into a wonderful aroma, hinting at the scent of a Kodiak bear in the Sahara Desert, swaddled in a parka. I blamed the smell of rancid swamp-ass on my best friend. It seemed only fair and reasonable, as he was the sort of hirsute hombre who could remove his shirt and still claim to wear a sweater.
The vultures were circling the last of the DVD players. In quick genius-level inspiration, I clawed at my head, shouting, “Does anyone here know anything about lice!?!” The wide swath left me plenty of room to leap forward and tuck the last box under my arm. I was Jordan. I was Bird. I was pretty damn plain. After picking up a CD in the sales bin, I was ready to plow my way out of Vietnam. Charlie was all around me, man. Sticking around would’ve required judge-ordered commitment. At least if I didn’t make it out of Black Friday alive, they’d find music for my eulogy with my remains.
I flexed my mighty, Herculean calves to clear a path for a line longer than Charlie Sheen’s Saturday night allowance. No one moved for thirty minutes. The last time I remembered a line halted to quite this degree, I found two hippies fucking in a Porta Potty at the end (which seemed redundant). I hoped that particular pot of gold wasn’t waiting for me at the end of this rainbow. Honestly, though, that might’ve been less confusing.
As I stood in line like a sturdy statue with a cheap DVD player and CD, a woman in a mobility scooter pulled up behind me and started to drone in my ears with the deafening babble of white water rapids. I turned to feign interest. Perhaps the shock of a youngster paying attention would cause her to keel over and I could avoid the rest of the conversation. That would be a swell reaction.
I was having a lovely time due to replaying the movie Pulp Fiction in my head. It wouldn’t last. As I ran out of Samuel L. Jackson lines to remember, I was confronted with her voice once more.
“I can’t believe I’ve been talking for two and a half hours. Dagnabit.” You can’t write this shit. I prayed for a quick death.
“Hmm?”
“You deaf, son? I said Dagnabit. Whatcha getting’?”
“Uhmm, a CD and a DVD player. Last one they had on the shelf.”
“Bupkis. It’s all bupkis, all those new players. They’re just robbin’ you. That’s how the terrorists win.”
“…What?”
“You know. Jews.” Freezing in place, I was incapable of speech as her words suddenly caused an outcropping of grey matter to form a malignant tumor solely affecting my cognitive function. I stared blankly at her face. She had cerulean hair, hiked-up shorts and a pink t-shirt that read "Honk If You Love Jesus."
“…They have all the money anyway,” said the old cow. That refrigerator box was sounding better and better. I wondered if in future conversations, would I have to yank my testicles to make vocal sounds as a crude form of verbal communication?
“…Well, uhm…”
“I hit a greasy Kike with a station wagon once. I didn’t stop because they’re not really people.” My blank stare returned. I questioned the exact placement of the nearest power drill. Maybe this conversation could be bored from my brain.
“That’s like, illegal and…this conversation makes me very nervous.”
“That’s what they say. I ain’t seen no proof of it. Not like the Bible.”
Her eyes fixated on my DVD player, possibly fearing for my soul by using the devil’s video box. “Yeah, uhmm…right. The Bible.”
“…Is that Julia Roberts?” Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have looked. Who would? Why would Julia Roberts be in a Circuit City in the state of Georgia? She could be in Milan, Paris, Rome, Tokyo; She wouldn’t be here. Why would she shop Black Friday? She’s rich and famous. She could afford anything. But with my mind thoroughly numbed, of all the things this woman had said to me, this made the most sense (which is depressing). So, fuck it, I thought, turning to look. As I did, I felt the cane slam into my throat and the press of a stun gun to my side. My body lost all muscle control, loose arms dropping the DVD Player. I can’t be too sure because I was more concerned with the Mack Truck that had hit me.
I’d gotten waylaid by a blue-haired granny in a “Honk If You Love Jesus” t-shirt. As she flipped me off over her shoulder with her rolling cart zipping forward, I was lucky people were kind enough to step over my paralyzed body.
Bravo, old lady. Bravo. Nice rope-a-dope. And I was the dope.
Bupkis, alright. Fuck senior citizens, and fuck Black Friday.
November 28, 2003
…
..
.
Black Friday (oh god)
While the reports of prison shankings over common gaming consoles have haunted the recent shopping explosion, the Friday after Thanksgiving has always been too big to be sane.
In 2003, I was 21 years old, single, aimless and still driving a black minivan (completely true). My best friend, who I’m convinced is actually named Svengali, tricked me into weathering Black Friday. Armed with our cudgel-like wits and noodle-like mitts, we presented what had to be the most heterosexual display of shopping prowess ever witnessed by mankind. It was a day infamously marked in history; a monument in its honor is under construction in Villa Las Estrellas. One day, Joey Fatone will salute that memorial with tears in his eyes and his pants around his ankles mere minutes before his drunk and disorderly arrest.
Circuit City was an old school flagship of electronics. It seemed like a decent place to find a cardboard box large enough to crawl in and die. They could tape the flaps shut at the funeral, before writing in marker “Fragile” for the mover’s information.
I tucked my hands back into my hoodie as we waded through chest-to-chest, wall-to-wall crowds simply to acquire my godfather a DVD player. As the heat rose, my natural body odor wafted into a wonderful aroma, hinting at the scent of a Kodiak bear in the Sahara Desert, swaddled in a parka. I blamed the smell of rancid swamp-ass on my best friend. It seemed only fair and reasonable, as he was the sort of hirsute hombre who could remove his shirt and still claim to wear a sweater.
The vultures were circling the last of the DVD players. In quick genius-level inspiration, I clawed at my head, shouting, “Does anyone here know anything about lice!?!” The wide swath left me plenty of room to leap forward and tuck the last box under my arm. I was Jordan. I was Bird. I was pretty damn plain. After picking up a CD in the sales bin, I was ready to plow my way out of Vietnam. Charlie was all around me, man. Sticking around would’ve required judge-ordered commitment. At least if I didn’t make it out of Black Friday alive, they’d find music for my eulogy with my remains.
I flexed my mighty, Herculean calves to clear a path for a line longer than Charlie Sheen’s Saturday night allowance. No one moved for thirty minutes. The last time I remembered a line halted to quite this degree, I found two hippies fucking in a Porta Potty at the end (which seemed redundant). I hoped that particular pot of gold wasn’t waiting for me at the end of this rainbow. Honestly, though, that might’ve been less confusing.
As I stood in line like a sturdy statue with a cheap DVD player and CD, a woman in a mobility scooter pulled up behind me and started to drone in my ears with the deafening babble of white water rapids. I turned to feign interest. Perhaps the shock of a youngster paying attention would cause her to keel over and I could avoid the rest of the conversation. That would be a swell reaction.
I was having a lovely time due to replaying the movie Pulp Fiction in my head. It wouldn’t last. As I ran out of Samuel L. Jackson lines to remember, I was confronted with her voice once more.
“I can’t believe I’ve been talking for two and a half hours. Dagnabit.” You can’t write this shit. I prayed for a quick death.
“Hmm?”
“You deaf, son? I said Dagnabit. Whatcha getting’?”
“Uhmm, a CD and a DVD player. Last one they had on the shelf.”
“Bupkis. It’s all bupkis, all those new players. They’re just robbin’ you. That’s how the terrorists win.”
“…What?”
“You know. Jews.” Freezing in place, I was incapable of speech as her words suddenly caused an outcropping of grey matter to form a malignant tumor solely affecting my cognitive function. I stared blankly at her face. She had cerulean hair, hiked-up shorts and a pink t-shirt that read "Honk If You Love Jesus."
“…They have all the money anyway,” said the old cow. That refrigerator box was sounding better and better. I wondered if in future conversations, would I have to yank my testicles to make vocal sounds as a crude form of verbal communication?
“…Well, uhm…”
“I hit a greasy Kike with a station wagon once. I didn’t stop because they’re not really people.” My blank stare returned. I questioned the exact placement of the nearest power drill. Maybe this conversation could be bored from my brain.
“That’s like, illegal and…this conversation makes me very nervous.”
“That’s what they say. I ain’t seen no proof of it. Not like the Bible.”
Her eyes fixated on my DVD player, possibly fearing for my soul by using the devil’s video box. “Yeah, uhmm…right. The Bible.”
“…Is that Julia Roberts?” Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have looked. Who would? Why would Julia Roberts be in a Circuit City in the state of Georgia? She could be in Milan, Paris, Rome, Tokyo; She wouldn’t be here. Why would she shop Black Friday? She’s rich and famous. She could afford anything. But with my mind thoroughly numbed, of all the things this woman had said to me, this made the most sense (which is depressing). So, fuck it, I thought, turning to look. As I did, I felt the cane slam into my throat and the press of a stun gun to my side. My body lost all muscle control, loose arms dropping the DVD Player. I can’t be too sure because I was more concerned with the Mack Truck that had hit me.
I’d gotten waylaid by a blue-haired granny in a “Honk If You Love Jesus” t-shirt. As she flipped me off over her shoulder with her rolling cart zipping forward, I was lucky people were kind enough to step over my paralyzed body.
Bravo, old lady. Bravo. Nice rope-a-dope. And I was the dope.
Bupkis, alright. Fuck senior citizens, and fuck Black Friday.