Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Honestly, It's Like Target *Wants* You to Crap Your Pants

Today I went to Target and purchased:

Twin pack of deodorant
A pair of sandals
Canine Carry Outs
A Pair of Thong Underwear
A Four Cheese Frozen Pizza

First of all, let me say I was forced, against my will, to choose the pizza. I wanted Bagel Bites. Target doesn’t sell Bagel Bites. Here’s a fun fact for you: Apparently your husband is the only one who cares when you want Bagel Bites. Target doesn’t. No matter how much of a piss fit you throw, they’re not getting you Bagel Bites. And you can be all “but I’m starving” and “how dare you eat without getting me food first” and “here’s the part where you’re supposed to throw your keys in exasperation and say ‘you drive me crazy’ and then, even though you are completely ticked off, go get me Bagel Bites because you love me.” But all they’ll say is “what the hell is wrong with you?” Except they won’t actually say that because they consider their customers to be guests. I know this because when I was nineteen I applied for a job at Target and the manager made me wait for forty-five minutes before he would see me, and I think the only reason he did was because I picked up the red phone in the little application booth and said, “where the hell are you?” And then he came down and asked me what does the word “guest” mean to me and I, of course, supplied some fabulous answer, and assumed he was asking because Target considers their customers to be guests which is why they would never ask, “what the hell is wrong with you?” because that would be rude to say to your guests. But I may have been wrong about that whole thing because I didn’t get hired (yeah, that’s right, I got rejected from Target. Beat that, losers of the world). Now that I think about it, maybe the manager was asking my meaning of the word guest because he considered himself to be one and did not think it was appropriate that I asked him, via the little red phone, “where the hell are you?” But that wouldn’t even make sense. You can’t be the guest of your own store, Target. I think maybe you need to call a staff meeting and work that shit out. You are confusing your customers and potential employees. Oh, and I know it was a hundred years ago, but I’m still pissed about not being hired. I would have rocked the red shirt and khakis. And also, did you see the ra’tard working behind the snack counter? Are you saying I’m not as good as him? I can be as ra’tarded as the rest of ‘em. Maybe. You should have at least given me the opportunity to try. My therapist told me I should forgive you and let it go. I’m working on that. You know what would help? If you had gotten me the damn Bagel Bites. (The whole Bagel Bites thing makes a lot more sense if you’ve read about the time Mark got mad.)

Second of all. Pair of underwear? Pair? The Internets gets all judgmental when I confuse two and too, but saying a pair of underwear, when in fact, there is only one underwear, is okay? How is this acceptable? That’s like saying, “I have a pair of cough drops,” and your friend is like, “I have a wicked cough. Can I have one.” And you’re like no, I only have one and I’m saving it for later. I’m anticipating a really sore throat around 3:00 .” And your friend is like, “but I thought you had two.” And you’re like, “no, moron. I said I have a pair.”

Third of all, it occurred to me as I was making my way to the check-out line, that my items comprised of the most random shopping list in the history of ever. And then I thought of that guy who became famous, even published a book, about shopping lists. Actual shopping lists. That he found. Or people sent him. Or that he made up. He claims he didn’t make them up. But seriously, Jay Leno, or Jimmy Fallon, or Jimmy Kimmel - one of the late night show guys - had him on to share some of his lists and I totally know how that conversation went.

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Hey person who books the talent for Jay Leno, or Jimmy Fallon, or Jimmy Kimmel or whoever is desperate enough for talent to have me on your show, you should have me on because I collect shopping lists.”

Person who books talent: “Shopping lists you say? Why would anyone care about shopping lists?”

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Because they are totally awesome.”

Person who books talent: “Okay, read me one.”

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Salsa, chili, cream cheese, shredded cheese.”

Person who books talent: “That sounds like the recipe for dip. Call me when you have something funny, or at least mildly entertaining.”

Forty-five minutes later:

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Hey person who books talent. You’ll never believe what I just found. The funniest shopping list ever.”

Person who books talent: “Go ahead."

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Cucumber, condoms, KY Jelly.”

Person who books talent: “Got any more like those?”

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Um…Yeah! Lot ’s more. I could write these all…I mean, people send me funny lists like this every day.”

Person who books talent: “See you next Friday.”

Seriously, Internets. He got a book deal for shopping lists? The world is full of injustices. Think of all the talented, creative, artistic people, who were neither appreciated nor famous until after they were dead. People like Leonardo DaVinci. He painted on a freakin’ ceiling and nobody even noticed until, like, thirty years after he was dead. And then one day someone was at the Sistine Chapel and looked up and was like, “oh my gosh, there’s a painting on the ceiling. It must be some sort of miracle.” And the ghost of Leonardo was like, “no dumbass it was me.” And people were like, “ooh Leonardo. He’s so multi-dimensional. We thought he only created anatomically correct armless statues.” And then Leonardo was like, “yeah that wasn’t me, that was Rembrandt. But what about that code I wrote? Tom Hanks gets millions of dollars and I don’t even get a mention in the credits? That’s f’ed up. I wish I had cut off my other ear so I don’t have to keep hearing about all the credit I’m not getting for my work.”

Never have the words of my husband been more true: Life’s a crap shoot.

If Leonardo DaVinci were here, he would completely agree. He has to die for people to take notice of his work and shopping list guy gets famous for digging through people’s trash. Crap. Shoot.

It has occurred to me that it’d probably be a lot easier for me to get published if I were dead. All, okay most, of my friends and family would be sad I was gone and they’d compile all my unfinished works into a book called The Totally Awesome Unfinished and Unpublished Works of Kelley Williams. And it will contain the dozens upon dozens of stories I started writing, and outlines of stories and story synopses and that beautiful poem I wrote about The Woods, and that sex scene I wrote. The scene wasn’t part of a book, I just felt like writing it.

I know what you’re going to ask, but don’t. I can’t post it on my blog. It would give my blog an X rating and then I ‘d have to make people sign a waiver before viewing it and I already have a hard enough time getting people to my blog without restricting it to the eighteen and up crowd. Or do you have to been 21 to read erotica?

And don’t bother trying. Begging will get you nowhere. I’m not going to share it. But I will say this, the scene is awesome. It will make you want to do it.

To compensate for not sharing the writings of my dirty mind, I will share my incredibly poignant poem of The Woods.

The Woods
By Kelley Williams

The woods are dark.
The trees are creepy.
I am scared.
Oh, look! Cupholders.

The End

Um, it’s possible I may have gotten The Woods confused with my husband’s new truck.

Now that I’ve given you a little preview of the works that will be published after my demise, back to the random shopping list.

As I approach the check out area, I try to determine who will be the least judgmental cashier. Why, you ask, would the cashier be judgmental? Uh, did you read my shopping list? Who purchases all those things together?

Twin pack of deodorant
A pair of sandals
Canine Carry Outs
A Pair of Thong Underwear
A Four Cheese Frozen Pizza

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out my plans for the night. Sit around in my thong underwear and snazzy gold sandals whilst eating pizza, coating myself in deodorant and feeding my dogs Canine Carry Outs like Princess Leia fed Jabba the Hut grapes. If she did that. I haven’t seen Star Wars in a really long time. I mean, I’ve never seen it. I’m not a dork.

I select the line of the less judgmental cashier, meaning she’s older and more saggy than the teenage Barbie doll tending the other line, and wait with my goodies.

And then the unthinkable happens. The teenage Barbie doll finishes with her customers before the old saggy cashier. And she’s like, “I can help you.” And I’m like, “No that’s okay.” And she’s like, “But I’m open. I can ring you up.” And I’m like, “no I like to wait. I’m practicing patience.” And I start looking around for someone, anyone, who’s about to check out, so I can wave them down with my pair of underwear and usher them into the teenage Barbie doll’s line.

But no one comes. So I walk. Ever. So. Slowly. To her line. Hoping some crazy pimple-faced teenage boy with no respect for his elders will push me out of the way to purchase Battlestar Grand Theft Dungeons and Dragons Madden 7. But apparently all the teenage boys are poppin’ wheelies in the parking lot, or whatever it is teenage boys do when they’re not purchasing Battlestar Grand Theft Dungeons and Dragons Madden 7, and I finally reach the teenage Barbie doll’s line and she’s all smiley and perky, but inside she is judging me. I know it.

I begin to place my items on the conveyor belt and suddenly I realize how silly I am. My shopping list isn’t all that strange. And even if it was, I’m sure there girl has better things to do, like thinking about her next Twitter tweet, than care about what I’m buying.

I’m starting to feel better.

And then. It’s time. To place the Pair on the belt. And suddenly, I realize. I have been worrying about the wrong thing. I should be stressing over buying one pair underwear.

Who buys one pair of underwear? One?

People who just peed their pants. Or crapped them.

No one just sits around thinking, “Hmm, I think I’ll go to Target. I need some deodorant and my dogs are out of treats so I should probably pick those up too. And let’s see, what’s in the fridge for dinner? Nothing. Might was well grab a pizza while I’m out. And I’ll probably impulsively buy a pair of shoes. Oh, and underwear. I think that too. But just one pair.”

You either need underwear, or you don’t. You don’t need just one pair. Unless you just peed or crapped your pants. This is exactly what is going through my mind as she is ringing them up. And it is on the tip of my tongue to say, “I crapped my pants.” Because if I had the choice of her thinking I’m buying underwear because either I peed my pants or I crapped them, I am going with crapped.

In case you fail to see the logic in that, allow me to explain.

Have you ever been sitting in the car, or in a work meeting, or shopping at Target, and you feel that familiar pang in your stomach, followed by severe cramping, followed by intense panic, followed by the dire need to locate a bathroom ASAP? You make it to the bathroom just in time. For the explosive diarrhea. And you think, “that was a close one.” And you are so relieved you didn’t crap your pants. Because that is gross. But guess what folks, sometimes explosive diarrhea happens. And sometimes you don’t make it to the toilet in time and you crap your pants. And yes it is gross (didn’t we already cover that?), and yes you will be shunned from society, but as they are shunning you, they give you sympathetic smiles and nod their heads as if to say Explosive Diarrhea. It happens. (Oh shit! (no pun intended) I think I just found my tag line). Because everyone knows when the diarrhea comes, you have no control. Sometimes the diarrhea will warn you with that first pang and you know you have ten seconds to find a bathroom before the explosion begins. But sometimes just for funsies, the diarrhea skips the pang and the cramping and goes to straight panic and then you are pretty much screwed. Hence the pants crapping and shunning and nodding of the sympathetic heads.

Explosive diarrhea happens. But explosive peeing? That never happens. No matter how much you’ve had to drink, no matter how long you’ve been holding it, no matter how hard your friend makes you laugh, people expect you to hold in your pee. Take it from these girls I know who, throughout their lives, even into their late teenage years, periodically peed their pants. Not for fun or anything. Just when something was really funny. They did their best to keep this fact a secret, but sometimes people found out. And when they did, never once did those people smile sympathetically, nod their head and say, “explosive peeing. It happens.” No. They said, “what is wrong with you? That is so gross.”

So the next time you’re faced with the decision of telling someone you either peed your pants or crapped your pants. Go with crapped. It’s, surprisingly, much more respectable. And, if like me, you have an aversion to lying, do what I do. Keep raw chicken in your purse, and right before you say, “I crapped my pants,” lick the raw chicken. I promise you, you will be crapping in no time. Or you could just stay away from Target. They’re really to blame for this whole pee vs. crap argument. Or you could buy your underwear at Victoria ’s Secret. Those two options are probably better than licking raw chicken.

Now I'm going to experiment with tag line designs.

Explosive Diarrhea.  It happens.

Explosive Diarrhea!  It happens.


Now, here is a banner you can put on your own blog, or website or facebook page.  Better yet, print it on a label and wear it as a sticker.  Or blow it up and hang it as a banner in your office.  The possibilities are endless.

Mah Book Progress: 0 Pages Written.

1 comment:

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