Tales in Hot Pink is a weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Diet
I'm in the mall when I decide I deserve a pretzel. "I'll take a pretzel, please," I tell the cashier. "Plain or buttered?" I debate for a minute or two. "Oh, what the heck. I'll take a buttered." He nods. He grabs his tongs and sullenly seizes a pretzel from the stainless steel tray. "I had to think about it for a minute," I confide to him, even though it's clear he doesn't care. "Did you?" he asks, sliding the pretzel into a wax paper sheath. He doesn't look at me. "Yeah," I laugh. "I've been on a diet for the past couple of months." "Really?" he asks. He is about as interested in my diet as I am in Euclidian Geometry. "Yeah," I say. I hold up my J.C. Penny's bag. "I've lost about fifteen pounds. I had to buy new pants." "Great," he says, but he doesn't sound genuine. "Yeah," I sigh, taking my pretzel. "All I've had to eat for the last few months is grapefruit and tofu. Every day, grapefruit and tofu." I hold up the pretzel. "So this is a real treat." I take a bite. My eyes fall on the small silver packets on ice by the cash register. "What are those?" I ask. "Cream cheese," he tells me. "Really?" I ask. "Little individual servings of cream cheese?" "Yeah," he says. "For your pretzel?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. "Yeah," he says. He's starting to get impatient. I think about it for a minute, and then I shrug. "I guess I'll give it a try," I say. I laugh a little. "What's the sense of losing all that weight if you can't treat yourself now and then?" He nods again, grabs a cream cheese, and rings me out. The pretzel and the cream cheese are gone before I'm twenty paces away. I spin on my heel and run back. The cashier is halfway through the next order when he looks up to see me back in line. I am shifting from foot to foot impatiently. The woman in front of me can't make up her mind. She's tapping her lower lip, studying her choices with excessive intensity. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," I'm whispering. A cold sweat is breaking out on my forehead. "What should I have?" she wonders. "What's good today?" The cashier shrugs. My left eye is beginning to twitch. "They all look so good," she sighs. "Then get them all and get the hell out of my way," I whisper. I think she hears me because she turns her head slightly. "I'm just not sure," she says, deciding to ignore me. I can't wait anymore. "Hey," I shout at the cashier. "I want more cream cheese." "Excuse me," the woman in front of me says, turning around. "I believe I'm first." The waiting is too much. I am forced to push the woman out of my way and muscle my way to the counter. "God dammit," I say, frustrated by the cashier's lack of action. "I said more cream cheese, you moron." The look in my eye is enough to get him moving. I buy fifteen dollars worth of cream cheese. I rip the foil lids off with my teeth and and hungrily suck the packets dry. The indecisive woman decides she no longer wants a pretzel. Five minutes later, in a shaky voice, the clerk asks me to leave. Some far off, still human, part of me notices that his hands are trembling. I suddenly realize, but don't care, that I have been making strange, animal-like grunting noises, and that there is a cream cheese froth bubbling around my mouth. A small, horrified crowd has gathered to watch me slurp down several pounds of the stuff. My eyes and the cashier's are locked for a few tense moments, but to his relief I lurch off into the crowd, snarling at anyone in my way. I have left behind my bag of new clothes. In the food court, the lines part like the Red Sea. In a low, growling voice I buy cheeseburgers, philly steaks, fried chicken, and ice cream. I mix them all on a tray and shovel the food into my mouth with my hands. At Godiva I order three hundred dollars of chocolate. I write a barely legible rubber check for the total. When the cashier asks me if I want my order gift wrapped, I tell her that if she doesn't give me the chocolates in a plain brown paper bag before I count to three, I will eat her, too. The police are notified after the manager of Cinnabuns makes a frantic phone call for help. I have not seen him, he has been hiding under the counter, urging the employees to continue giving me the free samples I have been demanding. I have been pounding on the glass display case with a sticky finger, pointing to my selections. "Let me try this one," I babble. "I can't make up my mind. Let me try this one." I have said nothing else and my mouth is full. My shirt is caked with spit and frosting. I hear the sirens and I try to make an escape. I am unable, however, to resist leaping over the counter at The Original Chocolate Chip Cookie Company and sticking my head into a stainless steel mixing bowl of cookie dough. The cookie dough, unfortunately, is very sticky, and I am unable to get the bowl off my head in time to make an effective getaway from the police. Instead of running to the door, which is to the left, I run to the right, where the industrial oven is, and I knock myself unconscious. I call Christine for bail. "The bad news," I tell her, "is that I'm in jail." "And the good news?" she asks. "I don't need new clothes anymore," I tell her.
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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