Grimace

I think we've all had just about enough of this guy. Although he did inspire the greatest jack-o-lantern of all-time. Same to you, buddy.

Slave to Fashion

So last night I made a late-nite (notice the "hip" spelling) trip to Wally-World (notice the 'hip' name for megaconglomerate corporation). I used to hate WalMart because the one in my home town had a caramel corn popper right up front which gave the whole store the sickly sweet smell of death (think fragrance de 'caramel anesthesia'). Now, however, I love it--WalMart is like the United States of companies: bigger, better, with more variety and mullets per capita. Also, as I've often stated in the past, the greatest marriage of capitalism happened when they decided to take a McDonald's and put it in WalMart. That even beats out McChevron.

Anyway, yesterday at approximately 11:14 pm, I paid my respects to Mr. Walton's smiley-face-covered store. I was in search of two new additions to my wardrobe: scrubs and eyeglasses. As much as I appreciate WalMart, I don't go there that often, but it was the only place I could think of that would have those two items post-11 pm on a Tuesday evening. Sure enough, as I walked into the store the song "Scrubs" was playing over the in-store speakers (no lie). Coincidence? I think not. I picked out my Cougar-blue, unisex scrubs (perfect for the Halloween season) in no time and headed for the glasses section.

Now, my eyesight has been going bad for a little over a year now, but I refused to acknowledge that fact until last week I couldn't order Jamba Juice because I couldn't see the sign. So needless to say, I'm in the market for some glasses. I know that my prescription lies somewhere around -0.5 to -1.0 (who needs an optometrist?), so I thought I could just, you know, go buy a pair of $5 reading glasses, except with an opposite prescription. Little did I know that my precious WalMart discriminates against we near-sighted peoples of the world and only sells glasses with a positive prescription. Forget that! From now on I support Target ('hipply' pronounced Tar-jzay).

The Mish

“I come back,” I mumbled to the driver in broken Norwegian as I made my way back to the front of the bus. Stepping of the bottom step and over the snow banked high on the sidewalk, I quickly retrieved the backpack I had forgotten on the bench of the bus stop. As I turned to reboard the bus, the sound of airbrakes being released and the engine revving informed me that the driver had either not heard me or—what is more likely—had not understood what I had said. The bus pulled away from the curb and I sprinted after it, my long winter coat flapping at my knees. Reaching the bus, I began pounding on it as I ran alongside. I could see my would-be fellow passengers alerting the driver to brake, but to no avail. Inevitably, my feet found one of the street’s ubiquitous ice patches, and my chance at getting on the bus literally skidded to a stop. Laying facedown in a snow-filled gutter, the early afternoon dusk settling in as the low-flying winter sun tucked itself behind the Norwegian mountains, I realized just how far from home I really was.