Target: Target
The Gays and The French ARE coming to your town. Their trojan horse is a little five-and-dime called Target.
Because they hate America and wish to humiliate REAL Americans (i.e. average Joes like you and me) these fancy pants elitists and sodomites have secretly re-named once familar objects like "pillowcases."
This confuses God-fearing heterosexual males who become bewildered when they cannot locate their desired product IMMEDIATELY and are forced to do the one thing they hate most in life -ask a clerk for help.
Then you have to suffer the further humiliation of being ridiculed for using outdated terminology no longer approved by the French/Gay axis.
"Oh, you mean pillow shams."
"Pillow shams?"
"Yeah, they're over in Bedding right next to the duvet covers. You'll probably need a bedskirt to go with those."
Duvet covers? Pillow shams? A BEDSKIRT? Oh, see we used to call them PILLOWCASES AND BLANKETS YOU #$%#$$%*%^*$$@$^!"
By the time you've gotten your pillow shams, duvet cover, and bedskirt and decided if you want the 250 or the 300 thread count Egyptian cotton, your masculinity is like
Then you've got to get what we used to call "pants." Fortunately, now that you've been converted into a French speaking homosexual you know how to correctly locate them.
"Excuse me, where are the gabardine-twill-bootcut-urban-relaxed-fit-chinos?"
Before, the clerk's eyes used to flash with anger and his reply reeked of condescension. But now he lights up.
"Oh they're right over here come with me."
You're one of them now. You liesurely stroll towards the checkout line. You stop to pick up a copy of "Fifty First Dates." The manager gives you a sly nod of approval (impulse purchases of sexually ambiguous products is the highest form of patriotism in Ingsuck, the official ideology of the French/Gay axis.)
You're starting to get used to this French/Gay thing, you might even like it. Then, just before you reach the cashier you stop to peruse the National Enquirer. For a moment, you pretend to consider whether it's worth $2.69 to find out if Kelly Ripa's husband is cheating on her but deep down, you know it's a charade. (Of course it's worth it.)
At that moment you're transformation is complete. You feel flush with civic pride. You smile graciously at the cashier and fasten your mass produced urine antennae to your head as you head out into the dark and stormy night of Ceasar's arrogant ganglion.
Because they hate America and wish to humiliate REAL Americans (i.e. average Joes like you and me) these fancy pants elitists and sodomites have secretly re-named once familar objects like "pillowcases."
This confuses God-fearing heterosexual males who become bewildered when they cannot locate their desired product IMMEDIATELY and are forced to do the one thing they hate most in life -ask a clerk for help.
Then you have to suffer the further humiliation of being ridiculed for using outdated terminology no longer approved by the French/Gay axis.
"Oh, you mean pillow shams."
"Pillow shams?"
"Yeah, they're over in Bedding right next to the duvet covers. You'll probably need a bedskirt to go with those."
Duvet covers? Pillow shams? A BEDSKIRT? Oh, see we used to call them PILLOWCASES AND BLANKETS YOU #$%#$$%*%^*$$@$^!"
By the time you've gotten your pillow shams, duvet cover, and bedskirt and decided if you want the 250 or the 300 thread count Egyptian cotton, your masculinity is like
Then you've got to get what we used to call "pants." Fortunately, now that you've been converted into a French speaking homosexual you know how to correctly locate them.
"Excuse me, where are the gabardine-twill-bootcut-urban-relaxed-fit-chinos?"
Before, the clerk's eyes used to flash with anger and his reply reeked of condescension. But now he lights up.
"Oh they're right over here come with me."
You're one of them now. You liesurely stroll towards the checkout line. You stop to pick up a copy of "Fifty First Dates." The manager gives you a sly nod of approval (impulse purchases of sexually ambiguous products is the highest form of patriotism in Ingsuck, the official ideology of the French/Gay axis.)
You're starting to get used to this French/Gay thing, you might even like it. Then, just before you reach the cashier you stop to peruse the National Enquirer. For a moment, you pretend to consider whether it's worth $2.69 to find out if Kelly Ripa's husband is cheating on her but deep down, you know it's a charade. (Of course it's worth it.)
At that moment you're transformation is complete. You feel flush with civic pride. You smile graciously at the cashier and fasten your mass produced urine antennae to your head as you head out into the dark and stormy night of Ceasar's arrogant ganglion.
posted by El Bozo at 7:58 PM
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