I love when the Christmas decorations all come up around town. Especially the ones in the mall. They’re all shiny, soo shiiiiiiny. After having been awoken by the sounds of loud screechy sex from upstairs, I figured I’d go check it out. The decorations that is, not the screechy sex. The less I know about that, the better, really.
The first thing that you notice is the enormous Santa hanging on the wall right next to the escalators. First you see his boots and his gigantic…uhm…pelvic area, then comes the belly, arms and when you start to near the top of the stairs, you're always relieve to see that he's got a head. As I was staring up at Chris Cringle’s private bits, I could hear the merry music of the season pouring out from the record store.
Every year the record companies spew out CD’s with various A- and B celebrities singing Christmas songs. If you play them backwards you’ll probably hear the voice of Satan commanding you to stock up on Coca Cola products, or something.
This time of the year, I become extremely partial to everything with the word “Christmas” written on it. I buy Christmas soda, Christmas cookies, Christmas notebooks and the list goes on and on. I have a Christmas calendar, of course. Normally, when there’s chocolate in the house, I attack it all with such feverish glee you’d think I’d just been released from a work camp in Siberia. Are there still work camps in Siberia, by the way? Probably not.
Hey, did you know what I just noticed? SANTA is and acronym for SATAN. I wonder what that means? Probably that I have too much time on my hands.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Every so often, I put on my new boots and totter off to the grocery store to purchase all those things that keep me from starving to death. I say totter, not because I in any way resemble an infant in the way I walk, but because it is hard to move like a graceful adult on roads which consist mainly of ice.
When I woke up on this morning, stomach growling and Bergerac (my mind) telling me that there was nothing particularly tempting in the fridge, I knew it was tottering-time once more, so off I went.
I like walking to the store – not that I, in my drivers-licence-free state, have any choice – because then I get to philosophise over what sort of foodstuff I would like to buy. It’s strange how much of the time is spent thinking about cookies. Things such as carrots and beats never come up. Go figure.
Very pleased with having made it to the mall without getting my luvely footwear wet, I pulled one of those little blue plastic baskets out of its stack with a graceful swish. Rather, it would have been graceful if I hadn’t almost knocked over a display of Christmassy nuts.
I quickly pulled out my shopping list from my coat pocket, pretending that the Christmas-display- murder-by-plastic-basket had never taken place. I always write a list. If I don’t, I always forget something and end up buying soap in stead. The process of how that happens is a mystery probably best not dwelt upon. Let’s just say that if you’re ever out of soap, I’m your gal.
Right on top of my list, scribbled with a bright red pen, was the word “Milk”, and so I started the exciting journey towards the dairy isle. After having picked out a fine looking carton specimen, I reached out my hand to grab it. At that very moment someone shouted something which sounded like “Gerfuch vivong!” The next thing I knew, two tiny women hopped past me, placed themselves in between myself and my chosen carton of milk, and then proceeded to ravage the poor dairy isle. Yoghurt, milk and butter was literally thrown from their comfortable homes and into the tiny women’s cart. Any objections on my account were effectively muffled by the thick fog of cheap perfume which hung around them, leaving poor Bergerac unable to function properly.
Then they disappeared as soon as they had appeared. Somewhat disoriented, I placed the milk carton into my basket and moved towards the second item on my list: bread.
Once again, I carefully considered my options before I selected a plump looking bread, reached out my little arm towards it, and…. “Yoshyou schepflunk!”
Then there were little, blonde heads in front of me for a second time, accompanied by groceries flying through the air and the overwhelming haze of Eau De Brothel.
I eventually escaped the store with all my groceries and my life intact, but I’m not entirely sure whether or not the clown that I saw on my way home was real, or some hallucination brought on by perfume poisoning.
Photo by Ryker Beck for www.Flickr.com